Aiden shakes his head. “Pass.”
“Besides,” Cole recovers from his fit of laughter. “You do realise that none of us is old enough to hire hookers.”
“Captain is.” Ronan meets my gaze with puppy eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that or you’ll be the only cake bunny hooker on your birthday.”
The guys burst out laughing, both Xander and Cole teasing Ronan who’s sulking and swearing that he’s not throwing any parties for us anymore.
Aiden falls back in step with me, letting his friends trudge ahead. “I heard you punched Vans.”
Except for his friends and me, everyone is a last name to Aiden. He doesn’t even bother to learn people’s names.
“Why?” I ask. “You’re going to tell your daddy about it?”
Aiden raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think Jonathan needs me to tell him anything that happens in this school?”
I scoff.
He probably has paparazzi on us or some shit. Jonathan King owns this school — and probably everyone in it.
There was a coffee shop that Aiden and I frequented a lot. What did Jonathan do? He bought the fucking thing.
But hey, he didn’t do it blindly just because he’s a control freak and wants to cage us from every corner. No. That’s not how the tycoon of King Entreprises works.
He studied the place like hell first and only took over the thing when he knew that it’d be two hundred per cent profitable.
Oh, and yeah, he abso-fucking-lutely sent his harem of lawyers and PR team to intimidate the owners into selling.
“You’re playing with fire, Lev.” Aiden’s words bring me back to the present.
I stop and face him so we’re toe-to-toe. Only I have a few inches on him. “Yeah?”
“One miss.” He raises an index finger. “Whether it’s alcohol, fights, or any disaster, and you’re done for with my daddy. It’s checkmate.”
My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth hurt. I want to pummel Aiden into the wall and punch that smug look off his face.
Before I can act on the impulse and give Uncle the trouble he’s been pining for, Ronan’s high-pitched voice breaks the tension. “Oh. Shit.”
Cole winces as he throws me a look over his shoulder.
“What is it?” I walk ahead of Aiden and stop short in front of my black Jaguar.
On the windshield, there’s something written in white paint.
‘Run along, King. You don’t need to beg for it.’
7
Astrid
I was forgotten until you said my name.
* * *
My muscles lock as I make my way down the marble, sweeping stairs. I’ve been living here for more than two years, but it still doesn’t feel like home.
Itʼs a tower and Iʼm trapped.
Nope. Not like Rapunzel or even Disney’s Tangled. This is the real-life version.
Since Mumʼs death, Iʼve been nicknamed by the press as Cliffordʼs Hidden Princess. Because Dad hid me away for a whole fifteen years even though he and Mum were married for some time and I’m not an illegitimate child.
Since the public revelation, I started to think that I might truly be a hidden, forgotten princess. Locked up in this mansion.
One more year.
With that splash of hope, I take a deep breath and cross the grandiose lounge area with gold-rimmed chesterfields and high platform ceilings.
I peek through the dining area where my ‘family’ is having breakfast.
“Morning,” I blurt, already heading to the exit. “I’m leaving for school.”
“Astrid.” Dad’s calm but non-negotiable tone stops me in my tracks. “Come eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sit down and eat.”
I wince at the harshness in his command and my shoulders slump. With careful steps, I cross the gigantic dining room with its flawless marble flooring and stone fireplace. A few of the kitchen staff stand in waiting like an episode from freaking Downtown Abbey.
I smile at Sarah, the head cook, but it must’ve come out as a grimace judging from the deep frown on her blond brows.
At least I have a friendly face around. It helps that she makes me the most delicious chocolate smoothies and cheesecake.
I flop on the chair at the tail of the table — which is the farthest seat from Dad and his wife’s. Not meeting their gazes, I start gulping down raw jam and the cheesecake. I scarcely taste anything. The sooner I’m done with breakfast, the faster I’m out of here.
“Honey, slow down.” My stepmother’s fake caring tone ruins my gluttonous mood. “Don’t worry. The food isn’t going anywhere.”
I gulp the mouthful of cheesecake, finally tasting the smooth texture, and cut her a glare across the table.
Victoria has an elegant aura about her. It’s in everything she wears or says. Even her tone is a flashback from a period film. Her blonde hair is gathered in a neat French twist. She’s wearing a straight high couture dress that must’ve caused a third country’s budget. A dainty necklace surrounds her smooth neckline and the matching earrings dangle from her ears. She keeps bragging that Dad got her the jewellery set for her birthday.
Gag.
She’s everything a lord’s wife should be. It’s like she was made straight from a manual.
Victoria might look ten years younger than her actual age due to the facelifts and the aristocratic name, but she’s nothing like Mum.
My mother was proud of her tattoos and her artistic streak. She was a free spirit meant to fly, not to be trapped in a mansion like Victoria. But then again, maybe that’s why Dad chose her over my mum.
Since I came here, Victoria made it her job to throw jabs about my origins. If I eat fast, it’s because Mum kept me hungry. If I refuse the expensive gowns, it’s because I’m used to scraps. If I breathe, it’s only because I’m leeching off Dad’s name.
“It’s different here, honey,” Victoria’s lips pull in a conservative smile as she does with the reporters. “You don’t have to worry about food.”
“I never had to worry about food before either,” I say after swallowing another mouthful of Sarah’s cheesecake.
Screw Victoria for insinuating that Mum didn’t take care of me. She was both my mother and my father rolled into one.
I admired her for raising me on her own and being everything I needed.
When I first showed interest in sketching, Mum stayed up all night modelling for me. When I was having a bad day, she’d take me on long drives, just the two of us.
Mum was my world while Daddy dearest lived with his real family.
“It’s fine if you did,” Victoria continues.
“We didn’t. Mum worked for a living you know. She didn’t leech off her lord husband.”
Victoria’s upper lip twitches and I smile to myself.
Small victories.
“Astrid Elizabeth Clifford.”
I wince at Dad’s deadly calm tone. If he calls me by my full name, then he disapproves.
Not that he ever really approves of me.
My fork clinks against the plate as I slightly lift my head to meet his punishing green eyes. The definite proof that I’m his daughter. That his genes collaborated in making mine.