1
EVA
I’m not a complainer.Most of the time, anyway.
But being banned from your own parents’ funeralshouldbe a criminal offense.
Six hundred heads turned toward me, the British prime minister and the Met deputy commissioner included, when my brother stood up mid-ceremony and marched me out, without a word.
Apparently, crying at a funeral is tactless nowadays. Half a dramatic swoon, a tear too many, and you’re banished.
Publicly. Humiliatingly.
A dazzling storm of blinding flashes and sharp clicks scorched my pupils as soon as the doors creaked open. Vultures doing what they do best—circling misery, looking for a fresh serving. Head down, I dragged my feet, swallowing the lump in my throat, desperate not to let another pathetic sound escape, while the Etheridge guards swept in and hushed the media quickly.
Obviously not quick enough, since their supersonic cameras managed to capture this monstrosity.
I straighten in my chair, staring at my laptop screen. The headline on theHelloweb page reads:
‘Tears and Tension: Inside the VIP only Etheridge Funeral’
Underneath is a particularly unflattering image of me being dragged out by Brother Dearest.
Of course, Dan is flawless in his tailored black suit. Me? I look like some broken bird, pulled out of a nest—chestnut hair crumpled to one side, bloodshot eyesclearlyedited by the tabloids to highlight the red and make my pupils a shocking turquoise. And is that a freaking twig in my hair?
The photo could easily be mistaken for a paused frame in a horror film.
“Kill me now,” I groan and pull my laptop shut a little too harshly. My lamp flickers. The warm halo inhales the lazy curls of steam from the untouched pot of ramen on mynewdesk, in mynewbedroom, in mynewflat.
With a deep sigh, I fall back in my chair and close my eyes.
This blows. Not only was the whole ordeal incredibly embarrassing, but this was the absolute last thing I needed right now.
When I agreed to transfer to Kingsden College of Philosophy, Politics, and Economics in Fort George—agreed, coerced;my consent from a morphine-high brain after seven days in the ICU was dubious at best—I was hoping to keep a low profile.
You know, hide in the shadows, blend into the walls, live under my hoodie.
It was entirely doable. Kingsden is a small division of Bristol University, buried in the Cotswolds countryside, surrounded by small towns. Here, students are a hard split between Oxbridge-reject Londoners, filed two hours away from tabloids and political agendas, and locals who keep to their close-knit circles.
I was all set to blend in. As certain as rain in England.
Now everyone knows who I am. Which means three things. One, locals at Fort know there is an Etheridge in town. Two, my security has been doubled to protect me from unwanted attention. And three, I have to sit here alone, while my roommates are at a club launch with the rest of the Kingsden students.
Lucky me.
My phone vibrates on the desk like a taunt. More pity calls. The final vibration sends it flying off the edge. I leap to catch it just in time and see the name on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, swiping the FaceTime call from my best friend.
A freckled ginger-haired face fills the screen, the busy Manchester city center flashing behind him. Caden takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.
“Is my misery amusing to you?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Oh, give it up, no one is falling for yourI-have-too-much-moneyproblem.Everyone was going to find out who you were sooner or later. Get over it already.”
“I’m over it.” I frown.
“Then what’s with the face?”
