CHAPTER 1
SIN
My head pounded in time with my racing heart. The taste of ash coated my tongue—bitter and dry—and the sharp sting of regret clung to the back of my throat like barbed wire. The stale scent of weed, sex, and sweat hung heavy in the air, dense enough to choke on. I took a long inhale anyway. A familiar poison that I welcomed.
“Fuck,” I rasped, blinking against the morning light shining in through the cracked blinds. I pushed at the weight crushing my chest.
A girl groaned, shifting on top of me, her limbs tangled with mine. That’s when I realized I was still inside her. Of course I was. I’d been so fucked up last night on a cocktail of booze and drugs I’d had no idea what I was doing. It was like a massive black hole in my memory.
The ache in my back didn’t hold a candle to the dull, bitter void in my chest. My hands, calloused and scarred, moved over smooth skin. She moaned softly and started grinding back against me, chasing whatever high we’d burned through hours ago.
I let her finish, not feeling anything, my body acting on muscle memory alone. Then rolled out from beneath her, cold and numb. I didn’t say a word. Neither did she.
My fingers wrapped around the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. The burn was sharp, but not sharp enough to bring me back to life. All I wanted to do was crawl into my bed, and pass out.
It wasn’t like I had anything to do today.
Even if it was my birthday.
The house was wrecked—an open-plan monument to destruction. Broken furniture, toppled art, someone’s leg hanging off the baby grand piano. A guy was snoring under the glass coffee table, and a couple passed out halfway up the stairs, limbs tangled like bodies in a shallow grave.
The front door slammed. “Sinclair. Fucking. Soul.” My mother’s voice sliced through the air like a scalpel dipped in venom.
For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. No way they were back. They were supposed to be in Cannes or Rome or whatever other shallow hell they were calling “work” this week.
“Sinclair!”
Nope, not a hallucination. I dragged on a pair of jeans I found on the floor and stumbled barefoot into the entryway.
Elizabeth Soul stood in the doorway like some wrathful angel of judgment—draped in a white silk blouse, thousand-dollar heels sharp enough to pierce flesh, her face locked in a permanent expression of disdain. Maddox Soul followed close behind, jaw clenched, suit immaculate, eyes like ice.
“Happy birthday to me,” I muttered, taking a swig from the bottle.
Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the carnage, a flash of horror rippling across her surgically tightened features. “Is that—vomit?”
“Possibly,” I said. “There’s a lot to choose from.”
“Don’t be crass, Sinclair,” Maddox growled. “This is repulsive. Even for you.”
“Sorry, Dad. I didn’t realize we had standards.”
“You have no idea what we’ve sacrificed to give you this life,” Elizabeth spat. “And you squander it on parties and filth.”
“Don’t act like you did it for me,” I snapped. “You did it for your image. For the press. For your fucking fanbase.”
She blinked, her nostrils flaring. “You ungrateful little?—”
“Ungrateful?!” I laughed. “You think I should be thankful for being raised by a PR statement and a glorified absentee landlord?”
“Enough,” Maddox said, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous. “We’re done, Sinclair. This isn’t salvageable. You’re going to your aunt’s.”
I froze. “What the hell did you just say?”
“You’re going to live with Victoria,” Elizabeth said, her tone final. “She’s expecting you.”
“Victoria?” I scoffed. “The one who thinks you’re a disgrace for being in movies and sent me socks for my birthday when I was ten? That Victoria?”
“She agreed to take you in,” Maddox said tightly. “Be grateful. You’ll be out of here by noon.”
