I’ve seen the terrible things that go on at Deception High. Hell, a lot of it was instigated by me. I know what kinds of things people do when they’re desperate for a better way of life.
Emma will get chewed up and spit right back out.
My father watches me with sad eyes, heavy with the weight of a terrible world. “There is only one real way to salvage this situation.”
“Why would you sign this?”
“The codicil for your marriage only takes effect in the event of your mother’s passing, if she died while any of her children were still young,” Duke’s voice breaks. With a shaking hand, he reaches for the brandy decanter and pours out a full glass. He drains the glass and pours another before speaking again. “I never thought she would die, not so soon. Not before me.”
Pressure builds in my chest, a mix of anger and disquiet that momentarily robs me of the ability to breathe. A different sort of person might call it a panic attack, but I don’t want to acknowledge the anxiety of a suddenly uncertain future.
Only the rage.
And a powerlessness so profound it makes me want to destroy everything in sight.
Power is the only thing that matters in a place like Deception. Money is the most important form of power there is. The Cortlands might have the right name, but without the money to back it up, any power we have left will dry up like an empty well.
A founding family without cash might as well be Gulch trash.
That is when the worst part of this all finally sinks in.
“There is only one founding family with a daughter old enough to get married.” The Averys have a one-year-old daughter that Emma is always asking when she’ll be old enough to babysit. There isn’t enough money in the world to make literally robbing a cradle an option. “That only leaves…”
I trail off, because I don’t know what my body’s reaction will be if I continue.
Duke says her name softly like he fears what will happen when he says it out loud. It still feels like a bomb goes off inside my head.
“Zaya Milbourne.”
The girl I love to hate, the one I’ve been torturing for years, is all that stands between my family and financial ruin.
My arm burns from the still healing cut, the one I’ll keep hidden under the sleeve of my shirt until the scab falls off.
There are moments when you can say to yourself, Someday I’ll look back and realize this is the moment that defined my life.
Then there are other moments, when you don’t need the benefit of hindsight to know that fate is gleefully tearing your whole world apart.
“Well, fuck.”
Ten
Fate is a sadistic bitch.
Or maybe this is karma finally giving me exactly what I deserve.
Either way, I’m not dealing with this shit lying down. I’d be lying if I said that Zaya Milbourne hadn’t spent a considerable amount of time on my mind over the last few years, but not because I secretly hoped we’d get married someday.
Most days, I just want to wring her neck.
Or fuck her until we both cease to exist.
Depends on the day.
Yes, I sometimes find myself staring at her skin and trying to figure out why it looks so smooth. Or I study the bent curls in her hair, wondering how it’s possible that every strand seems to follow a different pattern. She has always reminded me of those old school magic puzzles where you have to stare straight at them for several minutes before a picture finally emerges.
That’s only because there isn’t anyone else in Deception quite like her. She might as well be the only exotic animal at the local zoo.
None of that makes her a candidate for the next Mrs. Cortland.
The idea of getting married before I’m old enough to legally buy liquor is about as appealing as pulling off all my toenails and then dipping my feet in rubbing alcohol. And not having a choice about when or who is enough to send me completely over the edge.
This isn’t fucking fair.
This isn’t right.
And I really want to somehow blame this all on her, even though I know that’s crazy.
But if I didn’t find her so infuriatingly fascinating, if she didn’t always manage to crawl under my skin and then claw her way back out again, the universe wouldn’t have chosen her to punish me.
She has to take some of the blame.
I stride into the county courthouse like I own the building, displaying way more confidence than I actually feel like I always do. That is what it means to be a Cortland. If the mask slips for even a moment, everything falls apart.
On the outside, I maintain the facade. No one has ever cared what might be happening on the inside.
The overweight security guard operating the metal detector waves me through without even looking up from the screen in front of him. The state of California likes to hire five people for every one job, but his apparent inattentiveness isn’t really my problem. It isn’t as if I’m sneaking a bomb or a gun in here.
Although I might wish I were, depending on how this next conversation goes.
I mount the wooden staircase and take the steps two at a time, ignoring the loud slap of my shoes echoing off the high ceiling. Courthouses are in the same category as cathedrals or libraries. Silence reigns as an unspoken rule that most people innately follow without bothering to question. Even the lawyers who walk these halls every day communicate in hushed voices and respectful whispers, as if the wrath of God will strike them
