“Besides, he’s always bringing home random women ,and I never see them again,” Tristan says by my ear as he helps me shrug my backpack off and puts it on instead. “He’s a one and done guy, I guess.”
“Ew, I don’t want to think about your dad like that.” I make a face as Tristan leans forward to explain the throttle and the brakes to me.
One hand rests on my waist, while the other hand covers mine on the brake. “I think I like this though.”
“Like what?” I say as I start the engine. Feeling the vibrations from the bike travelling through my body is strange, powerful. I missed this. But the daughter of the mayor didn’t go around riding dirt bikes and running wild in the woods.
“How jealous you are,” he murmurs as he brings his hands around me, his body wrapped around mine. “First Blythe and now Sasha.”
“I don’t care enough to be jealous, Tristan.”
He squeezes me gently. “I think you’re a pretty little liar, Princess, and time will tell.”
I tilt my head back softly, knocking my helmet against his. “Keep dreaming. Just because you fed me and let me ride your bike, it doesn’t mean I’m yours.”
“You sure about that?” he asks, his voice teasing as one of his hands slides up my ribs, pausing just below my breast.
“Move that hand any further up and I’ll break your fucking fingers,” I growl.
“I love it when you talk dirty,” he laughs softly, and I can feel the movements against my back, but his hand stays where it is. “If we don’t go now, you’ll be late for your Government class.”
We pull up to the school, getting a few glances, but Tristan ignores them as he shrugs off my backpack and hands it to me.
“Here,” he says with a grin as our fingers brush. I snatch back my hand and give him a look.
“Thanks.” Handing him the helmet and the keys, I step back. He’d been in my space way too much today already. I didn’t want him to think we were friends or something. “And by the way, you’re not eating with me tonight.”
He shrugs. “I know. I have some place I want to be anyway. I just said it to get him off my back.”
Nodding, I bite my tongue and resist the urge to ask if he’ll be with Blip because that’s none of my business. I don’t care what he does.
He stands in front of me, helmet in his hand before saying, “Do you want me to walk you to class or are you just going to stand there?”
I blink slowly. I hadn’t realized I was waiting for him until his words pulled me out of my daze. “I’m going. But why aren’t you?”
“I told you, I have someplace to be.” He smiles and turns away, climbing back on the bike.
“Oh.” I ignore the small flicker of disappointment, blowing it out like a birthday candle.
Giving me a mock salute, he starts up the engine. “See you later, Princess.”
I flip him off and ignore the wink he gives me before speeding off. The bell rings out across the campus, and glancing down at my watch, I realize he’s right. I’m going to be late for class if I don’t move like my ass is on fire.
Out of breath, I dump my bag on the floor and rest my head on the desk for a second. I barely made it here, but luckily, it seems Mrs. Krankle is running late. Inhaling slowly, I almost jump out of my skin when Serena lays a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, what happened to you during the study period?” Her voice sounds strained, like something is off. I look at her carefully, her brown eyes are narrowed slightly as she watches me in return.
“I wasn’t feeling well, I needed a break,” I explain softly.
“With Tristan Radcliffe?”
“Huh?” I don’t like the accusatory tone of her words, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong. Huffing, she pulls out her phone and shows me some pictures of me on Tristan’s bike, panties almost on show. Then there’s an image of us talking and one where he’s handing me my bag back. We look friendly, more than friendly in fact, as he smiles at me.
“Are you dating?”
“It’s not like that.” I frown as I push her phone away. There’s a feeling of unease settling in my stomach, probably from eating too much food earlier after starving myself, but it’s making me feel uncomfortable.
“That’s what it looks like, Elena.” She slides into her seat and taps her pen against her notebook disapprovingly as she stares straight ahead.
I straighten my shoulders a little, why did it feel like I was on trial here? “I was feeling sick, so he took me to grab some food. That’s all.” I explain it slowly, not that it was any of her business.
Her mouth makes a strange twitching motion as she clicks her tongue. “You may want to warn your parents, they might not like this with your dad’s campaign starting soon.”
Mrs. Krankle enters, flustered and muttering apologies as she places her textbooks down on the desk, cutting off my response. Serena doesn’t understand, my parents won’t be angry, they’ll be happy. They’ll start organizing my bachelorette party and registering for gifts. I wanted to wait until after college to get married, but that wasn’t the agreement. I clench my fists as I recall the conversation I’d had with my father about it at the beginning of the school year. We’d been having dinner, my parents and I, as we discussed what my father had planned for the upcoming year. He liked to make sure we were all on the same page, that way we could always present a ‘united front’ to the town. He hadn’t even paused when he told me that I’d be married at the end of the year. That college would be unlikely. He stole my future without even blinking.
“Can’t this wait until I finish my studies?” I drop my fork, my appetite gone with my father’s words. I was actually going to have to marry Tristan Radcliffe. I had no choice. And I could almost live with that, except I would have to give up everything.
My father sounds bored as he cuts into the steak our chef has prepared. It oozes blood, and I watch wordlessly as he brings it to his mouth and chews it slowly before answering. “It’s up to your husband if you even go to college, Elena.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at him. I had inherited my father’s opal-shaped eyes and his high cheekbones, but none of his dark coloring. My temperament was similar to his, however. He never needed to raise his voice to frighten me or his hand to punish, and yet he was always in control.
My mother takes a sip of her wine, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the crystal glass as she watches me over the rim. We have the same green eyes, and fair coloring, but her hair is enhanced with highlights and expert styling. She has a beautiful hourglass figure, always enhanced by her specially fitted wardrobe. Trophy wife wasn’t a term that did my mother justice, she was from one of the oldest families in this town. She is a Grim through and through. The dark edge of her personality was always lingering in the air around her as she looked like a Botticelli painting who could tempt the devil himself.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m going to college.” I can feel frustration moving through me as my hands begin to tremble.
My father scoffs softly. “I doubt it. Your job is to be a wife and a mother. And let’s just say Malcom isn’t particularly fond of feminism and women’s rights. He’s a bit of a traditionalist.”
“I want to go to college,” I say firmly, looking between my parents. “I’ve worked hard.”
I’ve signed up for every class they asked me to. Learned instruments I hated. Punished my body doing sports they chose. I worked so damn hard. I tried so hard. My mother’s face doesn’t change, and for once in my life I wish I knew what was going on inside her head, but it was like she locked her thoughts away where no one could see. The corner of her mouth twitches, and just as I think she’s about to say something, she takes another sip from her glass.
“And I’m sure you’ll work at this too,” my father says calmly, as he cuts the next piece of meat like I don’t even exist in this conversation.
“Dad—” I choke the word out as something takes root in my chest.
Be a good girl. Behave. Don’t act like a child. I hear his voice in my head, even though he doesn’t say the words aloud.
He pauses, and looks at me, dark eyes boring into mine. “Don’t disappoint me, Elena. I hate it when you let me down.”
“Yes, Father.” I bow my head to hide the tear that falls down my cheek. I’m not sad. But I can’t be angry either. Good girls don’t get angry.
He sighs gently. “I think you’re done here, you are excused.”
I leave without another word and grab my dance bag as I go. I needed to get to the studio.
Chapter Six
Tristan
Everyone in Silvercrest is hiding something. There are probably more bodies buried in these woods than there are millionaires in Monte Carlo. I’m pretty much an open book, I like to smoke weed, occasionally dabbling in something a little harder at parties. Up until now, I fucked who I liked, usually Blythe for ease, but now there’s one girl I’ve got my eye on. I don’t try in school, but that’s because I don’t need to. The fact I only attend when I feel like it doesn’t affect my grades, and I couldn’t give a shit about whether the teachers like me or not—which most don’t. They write me off as a rich waster, who only cares about getting high, and they’d be right for the most part. But painting is my secret. Something that’s all mine. I doubt even my father knows that I use the attic studio my mother left behind, he likes to pretend she never even existed, and he’s rarely home anyway.
I wasn’t lying to Elena when I said I had plans today, I do, and I’m already running late thanks to her father’s new diet. Fucking moron. I don’t understand why she insists on being his good little soldier, following his words like they were the law. A little rebellion was needed in the Montgomery household, and I was determined to strike that match before the summer.
Riding my bike out of town, I head down the coast towards Port Ellsworth to a sweet little restaurant called Mariana. It’s got these Mediterranean vibes that have me desperate for Greek sunshine, feta cheese, and ouzo like it’s nobody's business. My mother wasn’t from Silvercrest originally, her family moved around since she was a Navy brat, and she’d always said Greece felt like home in her soul. It’s where I’d spent the last two summers, on a friend's yacht, sunning it up away from my father.
As I enter the restaurant, I spot Reid Taylor sitting on a table near the window, sunlight warming his face. He’s in his early thirties and owns a small art gallery in Port Ellsworth. We met by coincidence at an upper-class party in Silvercrest, but our mutual love of art got us chatting. He gave me his card, I don’t think he ever expected me to call. But I did.
“Reid,” I say curtly with a nod as I slide into the chair opposite him and order a coffee.
His smile fills his entire face, it’s one of the reasons I like him, all of his emotions play across his face like a picture book. “My favourite artist!”
I chuckle. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a buyer for the last piece you sent me.” He wags his eyebrows at me.
“The Violin?” I painted it years ago, when Elena had been playing regularly, trying to master the instrument. I came across it when I had a clear out a few weeks ago so that I could make space for new pieces. It’s funny that I find out today she’ll be playing again. Wasn’t coincidence a slippery fucker?
“Yep, a music school governor saw it on my website and fell in love with it. She said the ‘determination on the girls face was transcendent’! Can you believe that?” Reid can’t stop grinning, and it’s infectious as I smile along.
Transcendent. I didn’t see determination in that painting. I saw heartbreak, exhaustion, and misery. Elena Montgomery never failed at anything, but violin was not for her, it was sucking her dry as she bled for it. I felt relieved when she’d given up, I thought maybe she’d taken a stand against her father, but instead I’d learned that she’d joined the debate team. I guess Randolph thought an interest in politics would look better with his constituents than classical music.
“Have you thought anymore about going to Ackerman? I think you should, man,” Reid says casually, interrupting my memories of Elena.
I stroke my chin and take a sip of my coffee. “I don’t think the Ackerman Institute of Art can handle me, Reid. I’m a law unto myself, as my teachers like to say.”
“That is true,” he laughs. “But I can’t see you being happy in a snobby preppy Ivy League school either.”
Pausing, I whisper, “Since when does happiness mean anything?”
My father wanted me to take over his business eventually, especially since I owned just under half thanks to my inheritance from my mother. I don’t know why, since he hated me, but apparently having a Radcliffe at the top of the company was more important than whether he actually wanted me there.
“Isn’t art suffering?” I say, mockingly, as I make my voice sound wistful.
Reid smiles, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s always concerned about me when I bring the tone down. “Fine, but I still think you should consider it. The program at Ackerman is good.”
I nod as he tells me he’s wired the money into my account. With my art, I never used my real name, and the money I made went into a secret account I was keeping for emergencies. I mean, I had a trust fund and an allowance from my father, but there was something about having money that couldn't be controlled by anyone else. I wasn’t attached to my pieces in the way some artists were. For most, I could sell them without a second glance, it was only the ones of Elena that made me pause. Even then, I’d rather the images of her be shared so others could appreciate what I saw. I didn’t want to cage her. I wanted to set her free.
The house is in darkness when I pull up, I assume my father and Shandy—or was it Sasha?—have gone to bed as I use my key and let myself in. The staff will all have gone home too, so it should be easy to sneak up to the attic unnoticed. I know I said I wouldn’t be home tonight, but I wanted to catalogue some more of my paintings for Reid so that I could get them shipped to him next week. Meeting with him always made me feel validated, like the time I spent getting high and losing myself to the colors was justified. That painting Elena was justified. People liked seeing her. They were drawn to her, without even knowing her like I do.
Dumping my jacket in the hallway, I notice a soft light coming from the back of the house. I freeze for a moment, unsure what I’ll be interrupting if I just barge in, but when I don’t hear any voices, just the sound of running water, I know I’m safe.
My father stands over the sink, scrubbing his hands like he’s had them soaked in shit. I watch as he uses more handwash, and carefully scrubs under the nails, then repeats. I notice dark spatters on his sleeves, which are rolled up to his elbows, and I bite my tongue. There’s even a red-brownish smudge on his cheek. I swallow as I feel myself going numb. The Society was like an ink blot, corrupting everything it touched, and while I was part of it, there were still lines I hesitated to cross. Like violence for fun.
I lean against the doorframe and ask the question that has me watching my father with distaste. “Is that blood?”
My father doesn’t even flinch as he keeps washing. He must have heard my key in the lock, either that or he doesn’t care. He doesn’t look up as he bites back, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing I should stop, but I can’t make myself. “That isn’t an answer.”
The Society has no rules when it comes to the founding families. We do what we want, when we want, and we cover any issues up with money. That includes murder, kidnapping, theft, and any other crime you can think of. We allow it, and we never bat an eyelid. I know my father isn’t a saint, and he never pretended to be, but it was another thing to watch him washing blood from his hands like it’s a normal occurrence.
He growls, “I’m not in the mood to fight with you, Tristan, go to bed.”
“Answer me,” I demand. I can’t help the next comment that flies
from my mouth, full of spite. “I thought you’d stopped after mom. Guess not.”
My mother had been an accident in the way that he had never meant to kill her. It was another one of their explosive fights where he’d lost control and gone one step too far. I’d helped him move her body. I had helped him cover up what he’d done, and then I’d called the cops to tell them that my mother had killed herself. They came, and of course they didn’t look too closely, their pockets full and the ‘truth’ already in their ears.
I was an accomplice.
I was a child of The Society.
And this was the life we lived.
My father strides towards me and grabs my shirt. “If you don’t want me to burn that fucking attic down, you will forget what you think you saw.”
I lift my chin at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I was his only child. He hated me, but bloodlines were everything. Money was everything. I had inherited everything my mother had, which included just under half of the businesses since she was an investor. He needed me for power and status, more than I needed him right now.
“Really?” His face is so close to mine I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Don’t push me, boy.”
I say nothing, but meet his glare. I wasn’t going to cower from him. He didn’t own me. After a few moments, he shoves me away so hard I stumble and fall headfirst into the doorframe, bashing my head on the wood.
“This town is nothing but a playground for the rich and the depraved. It’s best you learn which way your bread is buttered if you want to make it to adulthood,” he spits, before pushing past me and storming upstairs.
My head feels wet where my fingers touch the tender spot, and I know it’s blood before I see it. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I sit at the breakfast bar and pop off the cap. Looking out into the garden, where the darkness blankets everything, I take a long swig. I wonder what he’s done with the body this time.
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