“All the more reason to ignore him.” She pulled a face. “What use would I be in property development? I’m a therapist.”
“You’d be fantastic at anything you put your mind to.” Tiff, though I loved her, was one of those annoying people who got A grades all the time without even studying.
“Prefer to be married to the property developer. Would save me wrinkles in the long run,” she joked, elbowing me in the side. Though she hadn’t meant to, she connected with one of my bruises and I winced. “Sorry, love. God, your head really is killing you, isn’t it?”
I gave her a faint smile even as I rubbed my side, pretending that was what hurt. “Yeah. It’s all good.”
I looked down at my father then jerked when I saw I had Fieri’s attention. He was glowering at me to an extent that I jolted back in surprise, which set off a tsunami of aches in my battered body. His glower deepened, then he grabbed my father’s arm, whose attention flashed up to me.
The second I felt his focus, I drifted back and away from the window. The last thing I wanted was to be in his crosshairs.
“Luke’s making a fool out of himself,” Tiffany pointed out, her attention having drifted. Something I was glad for.
“When doesn’t he?” I muttered.
“True. Not sure why your dad puts up with him.” She trembled again—which put Fieri and Luke in the same league in her mind. Jesus Christ. What that said about Fieri, I didn’t know. As for Luke? He was a psychopath. Pure and simple.
“He’s the golden boy,” I mumbled, staring at myself in the mirror one last time to make sure I looked perfect before I stuck on a smile. “Ready?”
She whistled as she turned to give me a quick scan. “You look hot. In pain, but hot.” Then she squinted. “You sure you’re okay to do this? Nothing worse than feeling shitty when you have to talk to these morons for an entire evening.”
Tiff was right. I wasn’t in the mood for it, but my choices, my wishes, weren’t important. Never had been.
Never would be.
So I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
I’d have my day.
“I’m fine. Promise.” I tucked my arm through hers. “Let’s get this over with.”
She snorted. “Preach, sister. Preach.”
One
Lily
I winced the second the beauty blender collided with my cheekbone. The wince morphed into an extended hiss as I let the pain flush through my system, only to be bombarded by it yet again as I carried on patting on the foundation.
The bruise was shockingly bright against my creamy skin, but I was pretty good at hiding the aftermath of a run-in with my father’s fist now and could hide it with the clever application of makeup. What I couldn’t hide? How his ring had torn into the skin, leaving behind the faintest cut, which stung every time I touched it.
There was no hiding that.
A fact, I was sure, that would irritate him to no end. But then, I irritated him period. Always had, always would.
And I would never not be proud of that.
Ever since I’d learned the truth, I lived to irritate my scum-sucking father.
I burned for it.
I took his wrath and let him reap it on me, because I loathed him and he loathed me, but I was blood, and now I was his only heir. It was just time that would make that official, and I couldn’t wait for that day.
Wincing yet again as I dabbed on the makeup, my attention was caught by my screen lighting up in the corner of my eye. I’d set notifications on Google for anything related to my brother’s case, and the fact that the cops were in my father’s pockets and were trying to spin it so the woman my brother had tried to rape was somehow the attacker hadn’t escaped my attention.
I just didn’t know how to go about rectifying things.
Which was why I was hiding a bruise caused by my father’s fist. I’d tried, and failed, to put things in some semblance of order, and he wasn’t having it. But then, he’d always thought that prick walked on water. Just because Luke was a boy, he’d received an automatic free pass to do whatever he wanted.
And when you had money like we did, whatever took on a different connotation.
Luke was sick. Rabid. I was glad he was dead, because it saved me from having to do it at some point in my life. The past twenty-two years had been spent working up the courage to kill my father and my brother, and I was ashamed I’d achieved neither.
In another world, in another life, I’d be a good daughter and a good sister, but this wasn’t another world, and this was my life. My family was evil. My father was one of the malicious, fat white men who ran the world from his ivory tower, and my brother had been born in his image. They were both bastards, and even in death, Luke was being one.
Quickly scanning the news alert, I saw the victim, Giulia Fontaine, had been brought in for questioning. Again.
My mouth tightened, even as I focused on covering up the bruise. It took me an extra forty minutes to achieve what I could usually do in ten, but when I took a step back from the vanity, I was impressed despite myself.
I looked as I always did.
Pristine except for that tiny cut, which I could reason away with ease. I thought an accident while playing tennis would easily explain it. I tripped and fell against the grass, and there was a tiny shard of glass there. At that point of the conversation, if someone asked, I’d laugh and tell them I’d fired a gardener over their inattention to detail, and everyone would laugh with me.
Because that was the world I lived in.
In that world, it was okay for fathers to beat daughters and for daughters to come up with random excuses that everyone accepted even though they knew what said father was like.
Donavan Lancaster was the biggest cunt around.
Everyone knew it.
But he had ninety billion in the bank and, therefore, he got away with murder.
Literally.
That was why my mom was in the family crypt back in Manhattan, because he’d murdered her when she’d done the impossible and had asked for a divorce.
I gnawed on my bottom lip as I stared at the bouncy blonde waves that danced around my shoulders, took in the bright blue eyes I’d enhanced with a dark slash of navy eyeliner in the corners, and the cheekbones I’d sharpened with bronzer that led to ruby red lips which gleamed in the light above the vanity.
Taking a step back, I looked at the neat dress that clung to all my slim curves, accepted that the black did things for my skin tone and hair that made me look even more attractive, and sucked in a breath.
I knew I looked like a china doll, and it was an image I played up to. I’d continue to do so until I found my way in and, through that, found my way out.
Today was a step toward that path.
An exit that involved my father’s death and not my own because, and this was the God’s honest truth, the only way out of this family was through death, and I didn’t intend to die. Not for a good long while.
The bathroom around me was a study of marble. The light beige counter was dotted with open makeup bottles, and the floor beneath my Louboutin heels—that added a good four inches to my height and did wonders for my ass—was a darker gray. The walls were covered in a creamy white stone that had gold striations throughout which, oddly enough, made my hair appear gold rather than blonde. As I contemplated the contrast, I realized I looked like my mother.