I’m going to kill someone.
Preferably my ex-best friend, who’s currently living on borrowed time.
With a sledgehammer.
Or better yet, I could drown him in a pool of acid.
All the guests have slowly left my property after consuming my food and alcohol and nearly throwing a coup d’état to get into my infamous wine cellar.
Try again in a century, cunts.
There’s a short list of the people who have gotten to taste my decades-old wine that goes back to the first generation of the Shaws.
Nate, but only when he had the privilege of being my friend. Now, he’s just a fucker who stole my daughter.
Said daughter when she celebrated her twentieth birthday.
And me.
Now, the whole list is just down to me.
And the devil currently doing kinky shit to the mute angel on my shoulder.
Some of the staff buzz around, tidying up the reception area with the diligence of worker bees, nonverbally announcing that the dreaded day is over.
Or maybe not really.
I yank my bowtie free, throw it on the nearest chair, and pull out my Zippo from the pocket of my jacket. The urge to have a cigarette is almost stronger than my compulsion to bash Nate’s head against the nearest object.
I’m not a quitter.
In fact, quitting and I don’t share the same universe. So even though I haven’t smoked in twenty years, since a tiny infant with rainbow eyes showed up at my door, smoking still feels like a part of me.
A large body falls on the chair opposite me, looking as silly as a clown with a vanilla orchid in his breast pocket that Gwen most definitely stuck there.
Nate is a tall man and an inch taller than me, as he likes to remind me, but he’s leaner. What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in brains and boring diplomacy.
This motherfucker has never lost a case in his life, holds the unbreakable record of a one hundred percent success rate, and apparently, also holds my daughter’s heart when he had no business to.
He watches me with that blank stare of his that could compete with that of an eighty-year-old monk. Nate smells of spice, woods, and Gwen’s fucking vanilla perfume.
And no, I don’t like sniffing people for fun, but I’ve had an overly sensitive nose since I was thirteen and was hit by a rotten stench.
It’s how I would know if this bastard needs a new one ripped the moment he starts smelling of anything that’s not Gwen.
“Bad mood?”
“Bad timing. Don’t speak to me unless you want to suffer enough body harm to cancel your honeymoon.”
Nate doesn’t even react to my crass tone, remaining as unmovable as a rock. “Charming as usual, King. Better tone down the psychosis a notch or else Gwyneth will suspect something is wrong. You can be crazy anytime you like, except on her big day.”
“I am toning it down, considering the fact that you’re still breathing…for now.”
“I thought you’d already accepted me as a son-in-law.”
Because my angel was getting depressed and proved with actions more than words that she can’t live without this fucking bastard.
And fine, I know he loves her, too, which would’ve been blasphemy in his life plans not so long ago.
Still doesn’t change the fact that he’s a thief who’s snatching my little miracle.
For good.
I vehemently refuse to admit that there’s any form of codependency between me and Gwen or that losing her is similar to backpedaling into the brooding, lost version of myself that I was before she came into my life.
“You’re in a trial period, so you should start counting your days and revising your will—which better have everything in your name left to Gwen.”
“Ever thought she doesn’t want me for my money? Maybe it’s something else she’s after—”
“Don’t even finish that fucking sentence.”
“I meant my affection and company, asshole. As if I would ever discuss with you or anyone else what my wife and I do. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“It wouldn’t have been there in the first place if you hadn’t put us all in this motherfucking situation. Just why did it have to be her?”
“If I answer that, will you tell me why it had to be Aspen?”
I flip my Zippo open, then shut it and press my thumb against the metal. “Why did she have to be what?”
“The woman who gave birth to your only offspring.”
“That was a drunken mistake I made when I was clueless, debauched, and lacked common sense. As thankful as I am for Gwen, I wouldn’t remember that night if it smacked me in the face.”
“Allow me to call bullshit on your and her nonsense.” A smug smirk covers his awfully symmetrical face that he could’ve used to become president if he’d chosen his family’s political route. “I might have allowed you and Aspen to claim amnesia in front of Gwyneth, but I know for a fact that no amount of alcohol would cause you to forget everything. Besides, if there was fucking involved, neither of you was that hammered.”
“Didn’t know you were an expert on the resident witch’s sexual flavors and drunk attitude. You fucked her, didn’t you?”
“And that’s any of your concern because…”
“You’re Gwen’s husband, who, according to a DNA test, happens to be that witch’s daughter. I’m under a moral obligation to stop whatever shitty mother-daughter kink you’re trying to satisfy.”
“The word moral has never existed in your vocabulary, so once again, I’m calling bullshit on that and your well-crafted but still flimsy excuses. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so terribly interested in Aspen when you loathe the ground she walks on?”
“If by interested in her, you mean I’m interested in expelling her from the planet, then sure. I’m searching for methods to summon aliens as we speak. My efforts will remain in full operating mode until she fucking disappears and spares us all her tedious presence.”
“If you say so.” He smirks again and I’m about to rearrange his features and fuck our “we can punch anywhere but the face and dick” rule.
I seem to have lost my ability to remain in control for extended periods of time ever since I woke up from my coma a couple of months ago. A coma that lasted only a few weeks but still cost me my daughter because she married this bastard during it.
Yes, the main reason behind the marriage was to protect my assets and blah fucking blah, but they ended up falling for each other for real. I attempted multiple strategies to separate them, ranging from manipulation, to divide and conquer, to pure violence.
That obviously didn’t work.
And it’s all because of the damn coma that I ended up in due to an accident that happened right after I received unsettling news about the identity of Gwen’s mother. I’d hired more PIs than I could count to find the woman who abandoned a one-day-old baby at my doorstep when I was seventeen going on eighteen. And while that baby became my world, I needed to corner the woman who thought she could get away with abandoning her.
All the previous PIs who’d handled the job were incompetent, so imagine my fucking surprise when the last one not only found out her identity, but also gave me the witch Aspen Leblanc’s name.
The same Aspen who has a habit of antagonizing me for sport.
The same Aspen whom I’ve known for seven years, since Nate and I first started Weaver & Shaw and he decided she was a good asset to add to our arsenal.
Naturally, I didn’t believe the PI, but he had the DNA test to prove that she is indeed my angel’s mother. And that knowledge made me lose control of my car and the wreck sent me into a coma.
A coma I physically survived, but its repercussions are still slamming into my face. In retrospect, the witch is the reason behind this marriage and my constant need to sever Nate’s dick snuff movie style.
My plan comes to a screeching halt when a cloud of vanilla perfume surrounds us. Gwen appears by Nate’s side and has changed into some jean shorts, a loose top, and her signature white sneakers—that she definitely wore with her wedding dress earlier.
Nate stands up and she interlinks her arm in his and looks up at him. When she smiles, her rainbow eyes glimmer with a myriad of colors. “I’m ready, husband.”
Kill me, please.
Or him.
Either would do—but preferably him.
When I first met Nate in high school, I didn’t think we’d come to this point in our relationship. We used to be rivals and fought a lot in underground rings in order to expel the pressure being put on us by both our families.
Later on, we came to the realization that our destructive methods would be better utilized if we used them to take over the world.
Which is how our partnership began and would’ve been perfect if not for the small detail that he took away my daughter.
Said daughter pulls out her phone and frowns at it like she used to do whenever she was waiting for her favorite band’s updates.
“What’s wrong?” Nate asks her before I can and keeps on climbing his way up my shit list.
He’s now snuggly sitting at position number three.
Right after my stepmother from hell and the witch whose sole merit is giving birth to my angel.
“Oh, nothing.” Gwen does that fake laugh thing that she’s absolutely terrible at and tucks her phone in her pocket.
“Is it about Aspen?” he asks, and the moment she flinches, I slowly open my Zippo to stop myself from clenching my fist.
As much as I like to think I’m enough for my little angel, I’ve learned the hard way that she’s been longing for her absent mother since she was eight. It was around that time that she learned by accident that her mother didn’t die as I’d lied to her and that she’d actually abandoned her at my door with nothing more than a measly note, a thin blanket, and tears.
Gwen wanted a mother and had the sleep talks to prove it even before she knew it was Aspen. That fact and others, such as how Aspen claims she thought her baby had died, made Gwen slowly get close to her mother.
Despite my not-so-subtle attempts to paint the woman as the devil’s favorite spawn.
Gwen stares between us with a wince. “No…yes…I mean, have you run into her? I’m pretty sure I saw her during and after the ceremony, but she wasn’t at the reception, right?”
“No, because running away is what that woman does best,” I say coolly, flipping my Zippo shut.
“That’s not true,” Nate counters with calm. “King kicked her out.”
That’s it. This fucker will die in his sleep tonight.
“Dad…?” Gwen looks at me with that pout that’s able to smash through my black stone heart.
“I did not kick her out. I just reminded her that my hospitality isn’t infinite and I was approaching my limit. But I didn’t think she’d need to snitch to Nate to drive a point home.”
So yes, I did kick her out, but I didn’t think she’d comply. She never has in the past, and she even walked away with that infuriating snobby confidence, as if the world’s her battlefield and I’m a mere vessel in it.
I was so sure she’d do as she promised, but she disappeared without a trace.
Or maybe she did leave a trace since she tattled to Nate, who’s watching me with a slow smile.
“She didn’t snitch to me. I saw you trying to throw your weight around with her after the ceremony.”
“I was only talking to her.”
“By trying to intimidate her.”
“Hey, fucker, whose side are you on?”
“Gwyneth’s. She wanted her mother here today and you had no business trying to kick her out.”
My daughter gives me that kicked puppy look again that makes me feel lower than fucking dirt.
She’s never gone against me, except for when it comes to the bastard standing next to her. And I’m starting to think Aspen will soon belong on the list of “People Gwen stands up to her father for.”
Even though she was hurt by her absence, she still watches Aspen from afar and often asks Nate about her.
She never asks me, because she knows there’s no love lost between me and the redhead.
Gwen’s phone lights up in her hand and she smiles, then clears her throat and answers, “Hello? Aspen?”
Speak of the fucking devil.
I mean witch.
My angel listens for some time, kicking an imaginary rock and tightening her hold on Nate’s arm, then says, “It’s okay.”
She bites her lower lip and whispers a shy, “Thanks.”
As soon as she hangs up, she looks at Nate and blurts, “She congratulated us on the wedding and apologized for leaving abruptly. She said something unexpected came up and she had to go.”
“Something unexpected?” Nate frowns. “She wouldn’t have left your wedding for anything…unless…”
“What?” Gwen asks.
“Nothing.” He smiles at her, then stares at me.
He doesn’t have to say the words for me to understand the meaning.
Something far more important than Gwen’s wedding happened. And considering that woman’s infuriating intent to be part of her daughter’s life, my guess is it’s something dangerous.
Maybe it’s my chance to hold something over her head.
Anyone who’s met me knows I am prone to violence, exploit fine things, and have an unending feud with my stepmother.
Our dirty laundry is all over the news, along with her Botoxed face and my immortal Forbes status.
Unlike what others think, Susan Shaw’s original sin wasn’t sucking my father’s dick or worshipping it for her Chanel wardrobe. It was her audacity of snatching my mother’s place, kicking her out of the house she called home, and eventually driving her to slice her veins open.
Being a gold digger wasn’t enough, so she upgraded herself to wife status. That might have given her some of my father’s billions, but it also presented her with her own custom-made hell.
Me.
It’s said that revenge is a dish best served cold, and I intend to make the blood in that woman’s veins freeze until she wishes for death.
I arrive at the charity event one of her friends is throwing—without invitation—in a flash of paparazzi.
The organizer is flustered when I show him my hefty donation check and he has no choice but to let me in.
I could’ve asked for an invitation beforehand, but that would have killed the element of surprise. Nate says I like doing things the hard way, but that’s only because the easy way is more boring than sleep.
Being dashing, rich, and having a “fuck you” attitude has put me on numerous lists, such as “Daddy I want to fuck.” Not sure if that applies to my parenthood or means I’m daddy material or both. I don’t honor that status or the other ones with a sliver of care.
Fucking is done on my terms, with chosen escorts and only after they sign an NDA that basically sells their soul—or, more accurately, their pussy—to the devil.
Aka me.
I don’t return any woman’s smile, don’t engage in any form of hair-pulling small talk, and I sure as fuck don’t give two shits about societal standards unless it plays in my favor.
When I order a whiskey at the bar, a few girls fall over their tits contemplating whether or not to approach me.
Pathetic.
The fact that they hesitate immediately crosses them off my list with a red Sharpie. Not that I would’ve considered them if they’d actually talked to me, but it would have shown that they at least had courage, a trait I would’ve admired before crushing it and their advances.
Only one woman is worth my time, smiles, and words. Gwen. And the reason she’s an exception is because my blood flows through her veins.
The charity ball is held in an extravagant hall with a faux French socialite atmosphere. The windows are a poor imitation of Le château de Versailles. The tall, ornate platforms appear to be expensive but share the dullness of a sewer rat from the Middle Ages.
Even the fact that they put a gold-trimmed bar in the middle of the space has a desperate “I’m rich” vibe that can definitely be used to describe Susan and her vain socialite friends.
I stare at my watch.
Three, two, and…one.
“What are you doing here?”
I lift my head as my nemesis stops a few steps in front of me. Once upon a time, Susan was a beautiful woman with sandy blonde hair and an hourglass shape that she used to seduce any dick available. But the beauty disappeared as she grew older and had unfortunate acquaintances with plastic surgeons’ knives.
She’s now a silicone monster with puckered lips that are close to hanging to her—no surprise here—fake tits.
Her eyes are beady, too big for her face, too muddy in their color, like an abandoned house in the slums.
Oh, and to make matters worse, she likes to dress in loud shades of pink, as if her sole purpose is to bleed people’s eye sockets with the view of her twisted version of Barbie. Her dress for the night is a shiny piece that’s paying tribute to the eighties horrible neon pink that should have its own dedicated section in hell.
She taps her toe in an impatient move that makes her look like a petulant child with anger management issues. “I asked you a question, Kingsley.”
I take a sip of my Macallan and pretend the ice is an undiscovered world wonder before I finally slide my attention back to her. “Oh, you were talking to me? Not interested. Try in court next time.”
The flashes of cameras intensify and I don’t have to search for them to know they’re focused on us. The battles Susan and I have in court are infamous, ruthless, and downright barbaric.
And since the press’s only job is gossip, they’re like dogs drooling over the latest bone on the Upper East Side.
She steps closer to me, faking a smile that appears painful with her latest Botox injection, then speaks in a whisper-yell so that only I can hear, “What the hell do you want?”
“My mother back. But unless you’re thinking of picking up necromancy as a side gig, you won’t be able to revive the dead, so I’m compromising with watching you suffer until the last breath you spit out of your silicone lungs.”
“You’re nothing more than a small boy trapped in a man’s body.” She has the nerve to smirk like a C-list Disney movie villain. “Your mother had the personality of chewing gum—sweet at first but bland as time goes by. Not to mention, she could be thrown away without a hitch. So if you miss that plain thing, how about you do the world a favor and cure your mommy issues by joining her?”
My fingers tighten on my glass, but if this bitch thinks she can get a reaction out of me, she hasn’t been dragged through enough courts. “I have a better idea, which includes stripping you of every last dime to your name.”
“That money is rightfully mine.”
“Rightfully? You never worked a day in your life after you married my father. Unless opening your legs and being a trophy wife counts which, spoiler alert, it does not.”
“You’re just jealous and bitter that your father chose me over you and your mother.”
“My mother, maybe, but never me, Susan. As much as you tried to tamper with the old man’s mind, the fact remains that I’m his heir and the one who inherited over eighty percent of his fortune. Life lesson for the day, pussy doesn’t compete with blood. Maybe you should’ve killed me with that pillow, huh?”
She pales, her lips trembling.
When I used to drive Susan insane for damn sport, she nearly lost it. And the fact that I was manipulative enough to never get caught by my father made her even more of a raging bitch.
One night, she walked into my room and placed a pillow to my face, but she gave up at the last second, probably remembering that my father would kill her with his bare hands if she hurt his only heir. And I was the only heir he could ever have since a few months after his marriage to Susan, he had prostate cancer, and while the surgery was a success, they had to remove his prostate and he became permanently infertile.
So I was the only Shaw his dick could bring into the world. And he was the type of closed-minded, old-fashioned man who refused fathering any children that weren’t his flesh and blood. He explicitly told Susan there would be no adoption when she suggested it and was completely inflexible about it, no matter how much she sucked his dick.
My father was an indecent man, the worst father to ever exist, but I was his only treasure. The legacy he had great plans for out of pure self-serving intentions.
“Kingsley is my only son and heir” is the line he often repeated and metaphorically slapped Susan’s greedy little heart with.
Which is why she thought she could get rid of me that night. But she got cold feet, threw the pillow away, and ran out of the room in hushed, frantic steps.
To this day, I have no fucking clue why I remained still, pretending to be asleep long after she left. I remember the renouncing feelings so well. The “what if this could end?” questions that ran through my head.
That was a few months after my mother’s death.
And I was naïve enough to think about letting this woman have it all.
Said woman pats her hair, then clutches her diamond necklace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, and believe me, that was your only chance to kill me. Now, you’ll reap what you sowed.”
“I’m still suing for the community property.”
“Is that so?”
“Your father gave me the house and thirty percent of his properties. That includes the shares in Weaver & Shaw since you used his money as a percentage of the capital.”
“Susan, Susan,” I muse as if I’m speaking to a kid. “If you’d been listening to your idiot attorney for even one minute instead of ordering him to file for meaningless lawsuits, you would already know that I proved my father senile when he wrote his last will a year prior to his death. The probation case on that is over and the judge ruled in favor of executing the most recent will that he notarized five years prior to his death.”
Which gives me control over his estate, including the house. Susan only got a percentage of the properties he owned after their marriage, which is less than twenty percent of Benjamin Shaw’s overall fortune. A twenty percent that I will strip her of sooner rather than later.
Actually, let it be later. I want her to keep suing, hoping for something more and losing each and every one of those cases.
“Now, as excruciatingly tedious as it is talking to you, your time is up. You might want to pack your medication for the night you’ll spend in jail.”
“What…?”
I tilt my head to the photographers. “I have at least a hundred witnesses and a thousand pictures to prove that you breached the restraining order. Be on your toes, Susan. The police will drag you out of here like the criminal you are in about five minutes.”
Her face pales and she tries harder to keep her plastic smile in place. If there’s anything Susan hates more than lack of attention and money, it’s putting her fake social façade in jeopardy.
She must’ve forgotten that, during the few weeks I spent sleeping like a distorted version of a mummy, Gwen asked Nate to file a restraining order against my dear stepmother out of fear that she’d cause me physical harm while I was in the coma.
Which was smart. This woman is not above injecting acid in my veins. She’d even take pictures with my corpse and safeguard them as precious memories.
One of my few regrets about that unfortunate coma, aside from Nate romancing my daughter, is giving this woman a pause.
Susan steals a peek at the horde of crooked journalists watching our every move.
“This isn’t over, devil,” she hisses under her breath, then leaves in a cloud of pink, revolting rose perfume, and horrible memories.
I empty the contents of my glass in one go, then slide it across the counter toward the bartender who seems to have been waiting for a nuclear war to erupt.
He nods, appearing half-fearful, half-disappointed, before pouring the amber liquid.
I retrieve my Zippo and flip it open, and it’s like I can breathe the pungent smell of Dad’s cigar. He used to have a peculiar liking for the finer things, including women, wine, and cigars.
Mom ordered this special edition gold Zippo for his birthday when I was about five. I remember his joy and how he only used it to light his cigars.
How my mother smiled with pride and muted happiness.
Until she didn’t.
Until he threw the Zippo, along with her clothes out on the lawn, when he kicked her out of the house.
Until she held this damn object in her hand during the last moments of her life.
This Zippo is a reminder of my father’s betrayal, my mother’s vain hopes, and her short life.
I grab the new glass of whiskey, intent on drinking it and leaving. My mission for the night is done, and I can go back home, hit the bag for an hour or so, and pretend the house doesn’t feel like a cemetery without Gwen in it.
It’s been two days since her wedding and she’s called me only once a day. Apparently, she can’t find time for me now that she’s on her honeymoon.
I pause with the glass halfway to my mouth when I spot an infuriatingly familiar mane of red hair. It’s the color of erupting volcanos, furious embers, and Satan’s favorite wallpaper.
Aspen stands in the middle of a group of men, listening in to what I’m sure is nonsense. She’s wearing a black dress that molds against her voluptuous curves in a “you can look, but you can’t touch” kind of way.
She holds a flute of champagne with the elegance of an ancient goddess and smiles with feigned interest.
Aspen might have inherited her ancestors’ wickedness, but she also got their soul-shattering beauty. The type they used to lure men and feast on their livers, hearts, and dicks.
She has the type of presence that steals everyone’s attention. And it has little to do with her defined cheekbones that could cut stones, the way her eyes reflect both the earth and the sun, or how her full lips would look perfect with a dick in them.
It’s her confidence, her finesse, and her infuriating determination.
She’s a hellion and the worst part—she knows it and wears it like a crown.
And while she’s not my type now, I can see why young me used his dick for brain energy when he hooked up with her.
She’s a puzzle any man would want to solve.
A wild horse they’d strive to tame.
That’s what the sorry fucks who are eating her with their eyes are currently trying to do. Unfortunately for them, she chews on their testosterone for breakfast.
She nods, excusing herself from their King Arthur-like circle, discreetly checks her surroundings, then makes her way to the stairs.
I don’t think about it as I abandon my glass on the counter and follow after her.
Aspen and I aren’t close; in fact, we’re the opposite of close. But I’ve known her for enough years to recognize when she’s up to something.
And I’ll be damned if I miss a chance to drag her down.
Crown and all.
