Sinful Palace: Ruthless Rulers Book 2

by Hart, Stella

  I push aside the negative thoughts and try to concentrate on the good ones. It’s not raining that much, only a drizzle, so it’s still totally safe for me to zoom around these empty streets without a care in the world. Besides, this is my thing. My ritual. I’m out here every day, and that’s because it’s so fun and relaxing. It’s almost therapeutic.

  I turn left down my favorite street; the one I like to attempt tricks on. The rain suddenly gets heavier. “Dammit,” I say softly, blinking rapidly as a droplet gets in one of my eyes.

  In the distance, I see a small silhouette. It looks like a person. It’s weird, because there’s usually never anyone else here at night. Only me.

  As I get closer, I see that it’s a slender woman. She’s standing near one of the alleyways on the left side of the street. There’s something dark behind her. Another person, perhaps?

  A few seconds pass. I can see the woman properly now. Only it’s not a woman, it’s a girl.

  I recognize her. It’s Chloe Thorne. She’s holding up a hand, like she’s trying to shield herself from the glare of my headlight. What the hell is she doing here?

  I realize she looks dazed. Disoriented. I can’t stand her, but I know I should stop anyway. See if I can help her. It’s the right thing to do.

  Just as the thought occurs to me, something strange happens. Shadowy arms reach out from the alleyway behind Chloe, and she rapidly stumbles onto the road. What the hell is happening? Did someone just push her?

  All of a sudden, my Vespa skids off slightly to one side, and I let out a loud gasp. “Shit!”

  I regain control quickly, but there’s something wrong. My scooter doesn’t slip on wet roads. Not if they’re wet from rain, anyway. There’s something else on this road. It’s hard to see at this time of night, but it looks darker than usual. Slick. Shiny.

  Shit. It’s some sort of oil. It’s all over the place.

  I let out a strangled cry. My scooter veers out of my control again, slamming right into Chloe as she stumbles toward me.

  I scream again as I hit her, and she flies off to one side. I’m still trying to regain control of the scooter, and within seconds I’m veering off in the other direction. I hear a sickening crunch as Chloe’s head hits the road, and then I tip over too.

  Blood rushes in my ears as I hit the ground, and for a few blissful seconds, there’s nothing but blackness and warmth. Then I wake up again and the nightmare returns.

  My voice is trapped in my throat. My head pounds. My body won’t move.

  A sudden burst of lightning behind me illuminates the road ahead, and I see Chloe lying several feet away, head lolling to one side. The air is still crackling as I finally push myself up on one shaky elbow with a pained groan. There’s another flash of lightning, and I notice an even more horrifying sight. Chloe’s left leg is twisted at a disturbing angle and blood is pooling behind her head, slick and vivid on the dark asphalt.

  Oh, shit. I’ve killed her. It’s all I can think about as I drag myself over to her, heart pounding. Adrenaline courses through me, dulling the pain from my crash. Soon I barely feel anything beyond the heart-stopping fear that I’ve killed someone.

  “Chloe,” I gasp, lungs fit to burst as I finally reach her. “Please don’t be dead. Please.”

  She stirs and moans. Relief floods my system. “Oh, thank god!” I say, leaning over her. “I’m going to call 911, okay?”

  She reaches up with one arm and grabs my shoulder. “You’re in trouble,” she mutters.

  Guilt slices through me, hitting right at my core. “I… I didn’t have time to stop. There was something slippery on the road, and you stepped out in front of me!”

  I know it sounds like I’m victim-blaming, but that’s literally what happened. I couldn’t stop in time to swerve away from her.

  “I know,” Chloe replies. “I didn’t mean… didn’t mean it like that. Not your fault. But you can’t…” Her head lolls back again and her eyes seem to glaze over.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Don’t call 911,” she whispers raggedly.

  “What? Why?”

  She suddenly regains another ounce of strength and reaches out to grab me again. She pulls me down to her. “Run,” she hisses. “You need to run, or they’ll get you too.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll get you,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear it.

  “Who’ll get me?”

  She draws in a raspy breath. “Just go!” she says. “Get as far away as you can.”

  I shake my head. “Chloe, I don’t understand—”

  She cuts me off with another urgent whisper. “It’s too late for me. Please, Willow… go. You can’t let her get you.”

  “Chloe, I—” I falter as her hand drops, and she goes limp. She’s unconscious again.

  I spot something out of the corner of my eye, and I glance over to the alleyway entrance to see that strange shadowy thing again. What is it? Is there even anything there, or am I just seeing things?

  I’m feeling woozy now, and colorful spots are starting to appear in my vision. Everything hurts, especially my head. I let out a groan and stumble back over to my scooter, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Chloe begged me not to call 911. I don’t know why, but it sounds like someone is after her. Someone who could hurt her if I call the usual authorities. But what else can I do?

  An idea suddenly flashes in my mind. I retrieve my phone from a zipped pocket on the side of the Vespa and dial the private line to my house. My mom can help. She’s powerful. Influential. Always knows what to do. She can have people here to help us in mere minutes.

  She answers on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Mom, it’s me,” I choke out. “I need help.”

  The memory suddenly vanished, as if it was sucked into a giant black hole, and then I was right back in the room with Myla and Logan.

  I sat up and stared at them. “I remember it,” I said, eyes wide and heart racing. “I remember what happened.”

  18

  Logan

  “I remember it. I remember what happened,” Willow said, eyes shining fervently as she sat up. “I hit Chloe, but it was an accident. There was something on the road. And I didn’t try to run away without calling for help first. I wanted to, but Chloe told me not to. She was scared of someone or something. Also, I think someone else was there in the alley, and I think they pushed her onto the road when they saw me coming. It was a set-up.”

  I held up a hand to stop her. “I know,” I said. My voice sounded hollow to my own ears. “You were talking out loud the whole time. We heard everything.”

  Her eyes turned wider, fearful. “Do you believe me?”

  “Hold on.” I turned to Myla. “I really appreciate your help with this, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I need to speak with Willow in private.”

  “Of course.” She packed up her bag and stood. “Willow, sorry again about everything you’re going through. If you ever want to chat or hang out, you know how to get in touch.”

  Willow gave her a faint smile. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Myla quietly slipped out of the room. I took a seat across from Willow, heart thumping loudly. “I believe you,” I said.

  “Really?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t know if that night actually happened that way. You heard what Myla said about false memories. They’re really common, and we have no way of knowing if they’re actually true or not.”

  “It wasn’t a false memory.”

  She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. “We can’t know that for sure. How do we know my imagination didn’t just invent all of that? It could be my mind’s way of protecting itself against the awful truth. The truth that I really did attack Chloe.”

  I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temples. “No. It was real,” I said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “B
ecause of what you told us about all the things Chloe said to you that night,” I said. “She definitely said it. That means it’s a real memory.”

  Willow’s forehead wrinkled. “How could you possibly know what Chloe said that night unless you were there?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “She hasn’t really spoken since the accident, unless you count moaning and grunting occasionally. But there’s one exception.”

  “Oh?”

  “I went to visit her a few months ago. I wanted to tell her that I was bringing you here. When I mentioned your name, she suddenly started talking, as if hearing it activated something in her brain.”

  “What did she say?”

  I swallowed hard. “The exact same things you just said to Myla and me. Things like: You have to run… run before she gets you too… you can’t let her get you.”

  Willow’s brows shot up. “Oh my god.”

  “At the time I assumed she was terrified of you because you ran her over. I thought she was warning me to stay away from you. Get away before you hurt me too.”

  “I probably would’ve thought the same thing,” Willow said, looking down at her lap.

  I shook my head. “But that’s obviously not what she meant. When I said your name, it must’ve triggered something in her mind. It’s like she was reliving those moments with you. She probably thought I was you, just because I said your name, and she was warning you to get away from someone else. Not warning me to get away from you.”

  “So her brain is basically stuck on that night and all of the things that happened before she went into a coma.”

  “Yeah. Seems that way.”

  Willow stared down at the table in front of her. “This is completely crazy,” she said in a low murmur.

  “I know.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Who is she?” she asked. “Who was Chloe warning me about?”

  I rubbed my jaw. “I don’t know. But I might have an idea. Everything could be linked here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just think about it.” I held up a hand and lifted one finger for each point. “It had to be someone who wanted Chloe gone for some reason. It had to be someone who was able to make it look like a horrible accident. It had to be someone who wanted to get you involved and had the ability to do so. Someone who could’ve monitored you and figured out your regular riding schedule and exact route. Someone who knew a collision like that would kill Chloe—or at least leave her permanently fucked up—but would only leave you with a few injuries because of your helmet.”

  “But who would plan something so complicated? And why? If they wanted to get rid of Chloe so badly, why not just shoot her in the head? Way quicker and easier.” She lifted a shaky palm. “No offense,” she added.

  “None taken. I get what you’re saying. It seems crazy to plot out such an intricate scheme just to kill or maim someone. But… who’s someone we know who loves plotting big, grandiose schemes that fuck with people’s minds before hurting or killing them? Who do we know who’s capable of pulling off that sort of shit? And who do we know who doesn’t seem to give a fuck about using innocent people in their schemes?”

  Willow raised her eyebrows again. “Q?”

  “Yup.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Why would Q be after Chloe? She was only sixteen when that whole thing happened. She couldn’t possibly have known about the Order or gotten involved in any way.”

  “Not true. Dad told both of us about the Order when we were kids. He never cared much about the rules.” I leaned forward, knitting my hands together. “And you remember what Chloe was like back then. Smart and nosy as fuck.”

  “That’s true. She was always getting in other people’s business,” Willow murmured, looking away.

  “So she could’ve done what we’re doing now. Started looking into the Order. Maybe she found out too much and Q needed to get rid of her. So they drugged her with something to make her dazed, took her to that spot, oiled up the road, waited for you to show up, and then shoved her in front of you. They knew you wouldn’t be able to control your Vespa and swerve away in time when it was so slippery.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Willow’s face suddenly fell. “Wait, no. That doesn’t make sense. Chloe was specifically saying to get away from her, so she was scared of a woman. Q is a man.”

  I coughed to clear my throat. “Well, actually… there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “I discovered something about Q a few days ago. I didn’t mention it before now because you’ve been going through so much over the last week, but it’s pretty big.”

  “What is it?”

  “We were wrong about my dad.” I hesitated for a beat, shifting my weight in my seat. “Q is a woman.”

  Willow’s eyes bulged. “What? Are you serious?”

  I nodded, lips pressed in a grim line.

  “Holy shit.” Spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? Why?”

  “Because it never occurred to me that it could be a woman.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t feel bad about that. Q really, really doesn’t want anyone to discover her true identity, so she probably likes to push all the rumors and assumptions that she’s a man, because that’s what she wants people to believe. It makes it far less likely anyone will ever realize who she is, because they’re all looking in the wrong place.”

  “How did you figure it out?” Willow asked.

  “I managed to steal a straw Q used during our meeting. I took it to a lab and asked them to get DNA off it, because I genuinely thought it was my dad and I wanted to prove it. Then the scientist told me that the saliva sample came from a woman. Some shit about chromosomes.”

  Willow blew out a short, frustrated breath. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this.”

  I hesitated again. “Sorry. It’s just… I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got the call from the lab, and I think it might be your mom.”

  “What?” Her forehead creased. “You think my mom is Q?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d struggled to keep this from her over the last six days, but in the end I felt it was necessary. She’d been so depressed and listless over the loss of her father—understandably—and I worried if I told her such a shocking new piece of information, it might tip her into a deeper state of despair.

  It wasn’t that I thought she was weak. I just knew that everyone had a limit of how much shit they could have piled on top of them before they finally broke.

  There was once a time when I wanted Willow broken, but that had passed. Especially now that I knew the truth about her and Chloe.

  If anyone deserved to be broken and tortured now, it was me.

  Willow’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ridiculous. You do remember that Q is the one who brokered the contract between your family and my dad, right? Why would she want to sell me and then act like she knows nothing about it? I mean, you remember how she behaved when she found out we were engaged, don’t you? She was furious. Why would she be so mad about it if she’s the one who arranged it all in the first place?”

  “She could’ve just been acting like she was mad so we’d never suspect her.”

  Willow scoffed. “No. No way. Q just killed my dad. Not to mention how we’re ninety-nine percent certain that Q and some other Order members leaked all of that Rutherford stuff to create this scandal for my mom. You literally agreed with me just a few weeks ago when I said that someone is probably setting her up!”

  “I know. I changed my mind.”

  She folded her arms. “Why would my mom kill my father and tank her own career by making everyone think she murdered the last president?”

  I held up a hand. “I know it sounds insane, but it actually makes a twisted kind of sense to me.”

  “How?”

  “Have you ever heard of a false flag operation?”

  Her brows furrowed. “That’s when someone
does something but they make it look like someone else was responsible, right?” she said. “Like when a right-wing person carries out a terrorist attack, but then people start saying stuff like: ‘it was really the other side; they staged the whole thing just to make the right look bad’. They’re accusing the other side of a false flag.”

  “Exactly.” I leaned forward again. “I was thinking… what if that’s what your mom is doing? Something similar, anyway.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it. Her presidency isn’t actually over yet, is it?”

  “It might as well be. Half the country is convinced she’s a murderer. She could be impeached or thrown in prison.”

  “I know, but hear me out. What if your mom—as Q—really did arrange Rutherford’s death, but she set it up in a way where there’s supposedly irrefutable evidence that someone else did it? Evidence that conveniently hasn’t come out yet,” I said. “At the same time, she could’ve arranged for someone to film that supposedly-incriminating conversation with Jamie and then leaked it to the media herself.”

  “You mean it is a set-up, but she’s the one setting herself up? Rather than someone else framing her?”

  “Yes, exactly. So for a while, she looks mega-guilty, and everyone makes assumptions and smears her and Jamie in the media.” I paused and leaned back. “Just when things start to look really dire for them, your mom finally leaks the so-called evidence that proves someone else killed Rutherford. Then she goes on a big fucking victory tour.”

  Willow slowly shook her head. “Why would she do any of that?”

  “Well, for one, she gets to be president with Rutherford dead and out of the way. And secondly, people will come out in droves to support her once they start to believe she was falsely accused and framed by some other party. People fucking hate false accusation stories, because it’s such a massive injustice. It’s a great way to drum up a ton of sympathy.”

  “I guess.”

  “If that actually winds up happening, voters will massively favor her. Then she’s practically guaranteed to win the next election.”