The Osborns get a lion’s head framed with gears, which fits since they’ve sunk their claws into every inch of urban development in this town and beyond.
This ring is the personification of a blood oath that befell me just because of some stupid birthright—very nonconsensual on my part, by the way. Now, I have to fall in line as the future heir of the empire. If I could care any less, I would. I would care so little, no caring would be found in my body.
I’d finally be free from this fiasco and this family.
But I can’t.
Which is why I’m walking into the house with dear old Lenin by my side.
“I can walk on my own, Lenino,” I say with a grin. “I think I know the way since I live here.”
Officially, at least. I mostly spend my time crashing at Jude’s place. I thought about getting my own penthouse, but then I remembered that I and alone time are the most bitter enemies, so I voted against the idea.
In typical Lenin fashion, he says nothing. I’ve known this dude since I was young, considering he’s Dad’s right-hand man and all, but I don’t think he likes me.
I prefer Hayes.
Dad’s secretary of sorts and somewhat house manager. Not sure what his official title is, but he’s been around to bail me out of Vencor shit.
Vencor is this powerful secret society founded by the four influential families in Graystone Ridge. It’s been used to ensure our full control and influence over important sections of society.
And while the four families have collaborated their entire lives to maintain their bloodstained power, there’s been some shakiness lately.
My dad’s generation is barely holding it together, undermined at every turn by the following generation. Uncle Atlas, Julian, Jude’s older brother, Kayden, Kane’s uncle, and Serena Osborn.
Not that I care. They should all kill each other. Thanks.
“It’s rude to ignore me, Lenino,” I coo, my lips easing into a pout. “Shouldn’t you at least try to console me for losing tonight? Or are you going to punish me?”
He releases a gruff noise.
“Is that a no? A yes? Instruction’s unclear.”
No reply this time. Not even a noise.
Guess we’re back to pretending I don’t exist. Dad’s and Lenin’s favorite hobby—on par with golf.
So I focus on my surroundings instead, sighing dramatically, just to give Lenin sensory irritation.
Petty, the pettiest of petty. That’s me.
The Armstrong mansion isn’t a house. It’s a god complex with central heating.
Marble everywhere that screamsimported, because my family believes locally sourced stone is for peasants. There’s a chandelier big enough to trigger a mild earthquake if it falls, and the reception room is lined with portraits of dead people I’m supposed to pretend I know.
All of them stare down like they’re waiting for me to turn out just as disappointing as Grandma says I will be. Spoiler alert—mission accomplished.
Every room smells like old money and newer guilt. The walls are beige because nothing says “emotional repression” quite like that color. The library’s full of books no one’s read, the piano hasn’t been touched since my stepmother’s last meltdown, and the dining table could seat up to fifty people we don’t even like.
Then there are the mirrors. They’reeverywhere. Grandpa says they make the space look bigger. I say they just make the emptiness harder to miss and my face much more handsome.
As my reflection greets me, my lips tug into a smile on reflex, even as something tightens inside me.
“Pressie!” a small voice screams as my baby sister crashes into my legs from behind, hugging me tight.
“Mimi!” I turn around and pick her up, throwing her in the air as she giggles uncontrollably.
Her golden pigtails fly with the motion, and when she lands in my arms, she holds on to me with all her might.
