How?!
What gave me away? The look of disgust I could never quite hide? The sneer of hatred I could never wipe away?
Whatever it was, I was once again fucking screwed.
In his office, with rain pelting on the windows, he’d shown me his prized and protected Final Will and Testament.
It was a tome the size of the Royal Decree. Pages upon pages of notary amendments and appendixes. And buried in the fine print were two highlighted areas.
Primogeniture: the section on myself, my role as firstborn, and what I stood to inherit. That part went on for sheets and sheets.
His death: Most importantly hisuntimelydeath.
Cut was a businessman. He was also cunning, ruthless, and smart.
The clause stated that any unnatural death, be it from bee stings or drowning, horse riding fall or car accident—even as simple as dying in his sleep—would make his entire Will null and void.
And not just for myself but forallof us.
My siblings would be tossed out. Jasmine would be sent to a convalescent home against her wishes. The Black Diamonds disbanded. Kestrel cast away without a penny.
What did it mean?
Simple.
Cut had noted that if he died from anything other than cancer or a medically proven condition, Hawksridge was to be demolished. Any death that could potentially be maliciously faked, our mines would be detonated. Our wealth donated to causes that had no right to receive charity.
It would be the end of our lifestyle.
It was his ultimate sacrifice and safeguard to ensure we stayed loyal.
Unlike him, I didn’t care about money or ancient rubble. If it meant I could be free, so be it. But no amount of drugs could stop me from caring about my siblings.
And Cut knew that.
He showed me his trump card.
Along with Jasmine’s imprisonment in a disabled rest home—her power of attorney stripped away—and Kes’s renouncement, I would become a ward of the crown, placed in a straitjacket, and thrown into a padded room.
He had authentic documents stating my mental wellbeing. A sworn oath bullet-pointing testimonies and histories, proving I was legally unfit to represent myself. All decision-making was to be at the discretion of my enlisted doctors—doctors who’d been bribed and coerced for years and knew my past. I would have no power—no room to argue.
The documents were submitted with a letter to his lawyer, stating if anything unseemly happened to him, to look no further for the smoking gun, because all fingers pointed to me.
I would be thrown in an asylum—one I could never escape.
Needing fresh air, I threw down my pen and crossed my office.
There has to be another way.
“Fuck!” I hissed, stepping onto the Juliette balcony the same way I’d done countless of times before. The cool breeze whistled down my back, and the ache in my chest deepened.
Yet, unlike countless of times before, my heart fucking shattered into a trillion pieces.
Below me, with her hair streaming behind her and the happiest, slightly terrified smile on her face was Nila.
She was a grey comet. A thundering silver-shooting star.
She couldn’t have been more majestic or sublime.
