Skyscraper Cinderella

by K. Webster

  They’ve taken my money, my phone, and my laptop. I’ve been left destroyed and threatened into submission. There’s not a happy ending to this story.

  I take a deep, calming breath as my mind begins to plot and plan. The Morellis may think I’m a weak little princess they can manipulate and terrorize into obeying.

  There’s only one man I allow to terrorize me into obedience.

  Winston Constantine.

  It’s time for the princess to save the villain…

  PRINCE CHARMING

  K Webster

  CHAPTER ONE

  Winston

  Flash. Flash. Flash.

  I’m posing like a goddamn Versace model to please my insufferable mother when I’d rather be playing naughty games with her.

  My assistant.

  My worthless maid.

  My obedient, dirty girl who gets off on the same depraved shit I do.

  Soon enough.

  I just have to make it through this bullshit first.

  Tilt your head a little to the right. No, a bit more to the left. Angle down slightly. Stare intently into the camera. Do the serious scowl thing again. Now switch it up and give us a smirk.

  This is more Perry’s scene. Strutting around like a rooster so everyone will admire him. It’s a waste of my time to preen in front of a camera when I could be doing something more productive. One cursory glance of the courtyard tells me either he’s late or choosing to avoid this shitshow. I’ll gripe his ass out later for bailing on me.

  Smile, Mr. Constantine. I said smile, not grimace. Are you ill, sir?

  This goes on for eons. Mother takes great pleasure in my displeasure based on the sly grin curving up one side of her lips. It’s times like these, despite me being a grown-ass man, I wish my father were here to intervene. He was always the warmer of our two parents and seemed to be one of the few who could thaw her out. After the first half hour of indulging Mother with photographs, he’d have pulled me aside for “business.” We’d have hidden out until the party started, cracking open a sixty-five-thousand-dollar bottle of Louis XIII Black Pearl Cognac as we enjoyed a few moments of silent bliss.

  The bitterness of losing my father rears its ugly head. My spine goes rigid, and my scowl deepens.

  That’s the look. Right there. Money shot, sir. Perhaps narrow your eyes a bit. Show them you mean business.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I itch to pull it out and take the call. The pictures Ash sent me of her all dolled up in the gown were breathtaking. It makes me crave to dirty her up and ruin her. I’d been about to tell her that too when I was dragged back to the photoshoot where I’ve been miserable ever since. Knowing my spoiled girl was expecting “endless amounts of praise” when I haven’t had an opportunity to shower her with it yet or even send money for the photos sits in the pit of my stomach like a lead balloon. If it weren’t for my need to put on a good show for the public, I’d have shut this circus down already. I didn’t exponentially grow my father’s company since his death by being stubborn or obtuse. No, I did it because I know the necessary games that must be played. Agreeing to a magazine spread that showcases the power the Constantine name possesses with my smiling face and expensive suit on the cover is just one of those moves that must be made in order to stay on top. Sometimes the ones beneath me need a reminder of the force behind the dominating name.

  When the photographer stops to look at the settings on his camera, I pull my phone from my pocket. I have a missed text from her and one from Perry.

  Ash: Winston, I’m sorry lover, but I won’t be able to make it to the party. While it was lovely using you for your money, I won’t need it anymore. My brothers will look after me now.

  I reread the text three more times.

  It’s not her. My gut tells me it’s not.

  And even though I haven’t rewarded her yet like she craves, she wouldn’t jump to such a harsh reply.

  The girl is practically in love. I finally gave her the fucking she’s been begging for and spent the night with her. It means one of those little triplet shits thought it’d be funny to pretend to be her. Irritation spreads across my flesh like a fever, scalding and dizzying me. If I hadn’t invited the entire Mannford clan to the birthday ball, I’d be a little worried about her being with them. But, since Dr. Mannford is almost as reliable as my mother when it comes to social appearances, I shelve my concern for now because everyone will be here soon. I’ll refrain from texting her back in case one of those dickheads took her phone. I read Perry’s text next.

  Perry: Something came up. I had to run out, but I’ll return shortly. I always got your back, Winny.

  His words strike me as odd, but I also find a sense of relief in them.

  “Sir, could you put your phone away? We still have a few more shots,” the photographer calls out in an exasperated tone, distracting me from Perry.

  “I’m sorry,” I rumble, piercing the man with a hard stare. “For a second there, I thought I was Winston Constantine who owned this entire goddamn city.”

  He recoils at my harsh words. “I only meant—”

  “That’s enough, darling,” Mother purrs as she sashays over to us, dismissing the photographer with an annoyed flick of her wrist that’s weighed down with sparkly jewels. “You’ve taken enough photos.”

  The photographer nods and then proceeds to pack up with his head bowed. Mother takes my elbow and points to a pathway covered with an ornate carpet meant for walking on during the party so as not to destroy the grass. Once we’re safely on the carpet, we stroll toward the estate at a leisurely pace. The guests will be arriving any moment now, but they’ll be taking photographs out front and then ushered into the piano room where they’ll enjoy some music from a young recent Julliard grad concert pianist, hors d’oeuvres, and champagne until it’s time for dinner. We still have time before the event starts.

  “You’re awfully surly this afternoon,” Mother says casually, though I don’t miss the accusatory tone. “Something on your mind?”

  Someone.

  But I sure as fuck am not telling her that.

  “Work is keeping me busy,” I grunt out instead.

  She lets out a heavy sigh. “Your work ethic is that of your father’s, bordering on obsessive. Do you ever pause to enjoy the fruit of your labor, love?”

  The forbidden fruit.

  Why, yes, Mother.

  “On occasion.” I smirk at her. “I’m nearly forty, not fourteen. Why the sudden concern?”

  “A mother can’t be worried about her little boy?”

  The sarcasm in her tone makes my lips twitch with amusement. “Not the one I grew up with. What is it you’re really vexed about?”

  “It’s Perry.”

  We stop, and I lift a brow at her. Her face has been beautifully made up today, making her seem as young as one of my sisters. It’s a shame she’ll never know love again. Despite her icy façade most times, I know it broke her heart when Dad died five years ago. The kind of break you never really heal from.

  It’s one of the things I loathe about coming here.

  The memories. The feelings. The pain.

  While the Constantine compound isn’t your typical home, it was mine. I grew up loved and adored by my parents, especially my father. As they added children to the fray, and I just became the eldest in a pecking order, I learned to harden myself to certain feelings. Perry still has much to learn as he’s the Constantine who wears his emotions like a big, blinking neon sign for everyone to see. Even Keaton, the baby boy in our family, has taken a page from Mother’s book and can keep his shit in check.

  “He’s actually doing great,” I admit. “Don’t tell him I said it.”

  She laughs, rich and warm and real. “Oh, Son, not about work. I swear it’s all you think about.”

  Though she likes to play coy, Mother is pleased I flawlessly took the reins when Dad died. I’m the only one capable of holding the leash to the living, breathing, snarling mega-beast that is our nearly l
imitless fortune.

  “Keeping this empire going is a full-time job.” I cut my eyes to her, not missing the brief flash of pain. We both know why I’m running this empire. Because he can’t. And Mother may play her innocent games, but we all know who the real puppet master behind our family name is. She just chooses to quietly ruin people where I prefer to flaunt it like a new, tailored suit.

  “It’s his car.” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “He’s so naïve he doesn’t realize he’s even doing it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Trying my patience.”

  I bite back a grin. Perry isn’t always the favored golden child. “Do tell, Mother. You know how much I enjoy hearing of whenever he disappoints you.”

  Her eyes flash with mirth. “You’re awful sometimes. Just like your father.”

  My father was a hard man when it called for it. Being a Constantine, that was often. But he could be funny at times. He loved his children no doubt. A comparison to him is one I don’t mind at all.

  “I apologize,” I say with a grin that absolutely says otherwise. “Continue. Let’s hear what the unruly toddler did and how I can fix it.”

  Her severe features soften, and she plucks a non-existent hair off my lapel. The simple gesture is one my siblings never notice. Mother is cold most days and hardly affectionate, but she has her ways. Simple ones. Sure, she showers us with over-the-top gifts and praise—though some of us she prefers over others—but sometimes it’s the small things. For as long as I can remember, she would smooth out the hair on our heads or pull off stray lint from our clothes or tap on our nose when it was required of us to smile. Though she doesn’t fuss over our hair or touch our noses any longer, she still does the other. It’s a reminder of why my father loved her. Somewhere, deep inside, she’s soft for her family.

  “Can you speak to him about his vehicle?”

  I frown at her. “He got a new car?”

  “Halcyon is paying for it,” she tosses back, her lip curling into a disgusted sneer. “While I appreciate you giving him a car allowance, I wish you’d have been there to help him pick one out.”

  I’m amused that she’s put out over a car. There’s no telling what sort of monstrosity my brother chose. If we’re basing it on his last car—a restored muscle car, much to Mother’s horror—then whatever it is must be even more obnoxious. I’d never tell her, but I quite enjoy seeing the vein in her forehead throb whenever his Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 roars into the drive, the loud V-8 rumbling with enough power to make the windows rattle.

  “His Mustang is one of the best sports cars priced under a hundred grand,” I taunt, reciting my brother’s words back to her. “Zero to sixty in four point two seconds.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she grumbles. “Even that, I could tolerate, because it wasn’t an eye sore. His new car is hideous. Try, if you will, to have him reconsider the purchase. If it comes from me, I’ll just sound like a meddling mother.”

  Mother never wants to disappoint the favorite child. She can be harsh, abrasive, cruel even, but when she’s playing favorites, she goes all out.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I lie. I won’t. He’s a Constantine. The Constantine men in this family are serious about their cars. Even Dad had his particular desires when it came to his vehicles—which is fitting he passed away in his favorite one. I can give Perry a lot of shit about everything from his hairstyle to his clothing to his lack of business sense. What I won’t do is insult his car or tell him his mommy doesn’t like it.

  Keaton steps outside, and I take it as my cue to untangle myself from my mother. My baby brother, who looks striking like our mother but is built like a brick shithouse, pins his wolfish smile on me. I tip my head at him and call out.

  “Got a minute to talk business, little brother?”

  Keaton’s eyes dart to Mother before he nods. “Always a minute for you.”

  “Honestly, Winston,” Mother complains, though there’s an edge of humor in her tone. “It’s your birthday. Give it a rest.”

  We both know she’d love for me to convince Keaton to follow in my footsteps rather than whatever grandiose ideas he has about professionally playing rugby. I feel a sliver of pity for him as I remember being his age—headed toward my last year in prep school—wishing for more out of life than what was predestined for me. But, with age, you learn family is everything, and how you continue that legacy is all that matters.

  “No rest for the wicked. I’ll catch up in a bit,” I say, taking mother’s dainty hand and kissing the top of it. “Excuse me.”

  “Enjoy your birthday, love,” Mother calls out behind me. “Save me a dance later.”

  I smirk as I approach Keaton. It’s a shame he’s not older. I’m stuck with Perry at the office, but Keaton’s the brainiac. He’s got the whole asshole jock vibe going on, unfortunately like the fucking triplet twats, but unlike those dipshits, Keaton’s mind is sharp and calculating. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll bag the valedictorian accolade at Pembroke his senior year.

  “Thirsty?” I arch a brow at him.

  “Depends. What are we drinking?”

  I clutch his shoulder and squeeze. “Dad’s stash.”

  The smugness rolling off him melts away as vulnerability flashes in his gaze. Like the rest of the Constantines, he was greatly impacted by the loss of our father, probably the most of all of us. Where Perry was an emotionally wrecked teenager, Keaton went from a playful, happy preteen to one formed of stone. Impenetrable and hard. That, I can relate to.

  We step inside the estate, slipping past bustling waitstaff as they rush around in a frenzy to make the party a success. I avoid the sounds of piano playing nearby, striding down a series of hallways until I find Dad’s study. It’s been locked because of the guests, but I quickly unlock it with my key and grant us access. Keaton closes the door behind him as I make a beeline over to Dad’s liquor cabinet that remains just the way it always has been, thanks to Mother. Each of her children have raided it, needing to feel that closeness to our father, and each time, she replaces the emptied liquor as though it were never touched.

  Keaton takes a seat at one of the oversized leather armchairs while I open the mahogany cabinet. My eyes widen at the new addition. A 24-karot gold dipped with platinum bottle of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne encrusted in tiny crystals with a navy-blue ribbon tied around the neck of it.

  Mother.

  Most mothers would buy their son a tie for his thirty-seventh birthday.

  Mine surprises me with a two-million-dollar bottle of cognac.

  “Looks like we’re celebrating in a way Dad would approve of,” I tell Keaton, holding up the bottle.

  He smirks and gives me an arrogant nod of his head. “If she got you that for your birthday and she barely likes you, imagine what she’ll get me.”

  I flip him off and then pour us each a glass. Carrying them over to him, I study my brother along the way. He has the cool, aloof demeanor that is fitting for a Constantine, but I know he burns inside. His eyes are telling, often flashing with emotion he otherwise keeps well hidden.

  “I miss this,” I admit as I pass off his glass and take a seat across from him.

  “Hanging with the best-looking Constantine?”

  “No, I see that guy in the mirror each day. Gets rather boring if we’re being honest.” I smirk at him. “I’m talking about Dad. This was our thing.”

  The muscle in his jaw ticks, and he hides it by bringing the glass to his lips, inhaling the scent, before taking a sip. “Hmph.”

  I nearly bark out a laugh at his childish response. Sometimes, though, I have to remind myself, he still is one. A child. In the fall, he’ll head back to Vermont and finish his time at Pembroke Preparatory School. Then he’ll become a real man, following in the footsteps of each male Constantine before him—aside from Perry’s slacker ass—carving out a powerful name for himself. Rugby will likely become a distant dream, just as it was for me.

  �
�He’d always tell Mother we had important matters to discuss between men,” I say, my lips turning up at the fond memory. “And we’d get borderline drunk on his stash. Later, Mother would threaten us within inches of our lives if we embarrassed her.”

  Five years.

  It’s been five long years since I had those moments with my father that I selfishly took for granted.

  “Are we ever going to discuss the elephant in the room?” he demands in a moody tone that’s more fitting for Perry.

  My brow hikes up. “The fact your girlfriend isn’t with you?”

  “She’ll be here later.” His eyes pull from mine like they did when he was a child and hiding something. “I’m talking about what’s eating you. You’re all worked up. We don’t do heart to hearts, Win, so spill.”

  I study him for a beat, impressed with his ability to sniff out my weakness, which is difficult for most men, never mind a teenager. “How close are you with the Mannford triplets?”

  After some research, I discovered Dr. Mannford got them into Pembroke the second semester of their junior year.

  “The new kids?” Keaton takes another drink and shrugs. “They stay on their turf, and I stay on mine. They don’t fuck with me.”

  “You’re not a gangster, Keat. Explain this in civilized adult terms.”

  He rolls his eyes, reminding me of his age again. “I mean, I don’t talk to them if I don’t have to. Pembroke is less about social standing and more about circles. My circle is rugby and theirs is lacrosse. Those circles don’t often overlap. And they aren’t welcome in the Hellfire Club.”

  I almost snort. Just the mention of the Pembroke Club that ruled all others brings back memories of prep school dustups. But I have to focus on the now. “Your circles don’t often overlap, but sometimes they do?”

  “It’s like this. We’re lions. They’re the hyenas feeding off our scraps. There’s no partnership, only awareness.” Leaning forward, he sets down his glass on the table between us. “Why the sudden interest in the Mannfords?”