WHEN THINGS FEEL TOO good to be true, that usually means they are. And what is unfolding between Whit and I is absolutely a lie waiting to be revealed. We spend the week together at the Lancaster estate, sneaking off where we can, messing around in every room, on every available surface. It’s not easy. There are so many rooms. So many places to sneak away. But he’s persistent. He fucks me everywhere. In every way he can. My thigh muscles ache from being spread so wide all the time. My mouth is sore from all the kissing and the blow jobs.
But I’m not complaining.
Our sneaking around is difficult, considering there are so many people in this house. Servants, everywhere. Staff. Assistants. Parents. Sylvie. Spencer.
He came to the Michaels’ party, brought Sylvie home and never left. Their parents didn’t bat an eyelash at Spencer’s arrival. It was all explained under the guise of, “Sylvie brought a friend so Whit did too,” which is absolute garbage.
I am here for Whit. And Spence is here for Sylvie.
Guilt swamps me every time I think about how I abandoned my friend, but she never gives me a chance to talk to her about it. She avoids me. Every time we’re around each other, she ignores me, focusing all of her attention on Whit, or Spence, or whoever else is nearby.
Never me.
Until Thursday morning. Thanksgiving Day. I find Sylvie downstairs in a sitting room that looks out over the enormous back yard, sipping on a latte someone made for her.
The true princess. The future queen. Ah, to be a Lancaster. To have everything done for you, mapped out for you, so you don’t have to lift a finger or even so much as think.
“There you are,” I say cheerily as I enter the room. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” Her tone is guarded, making me halt. “I figured you were in search of my brother. Or have you two finally grown sick of each other after the constant fucking all week?”
Her words feel like a slap. I go to her, sitting in the chair across from hers. “You’re mad at me.”
“Of course, I’m mad at you. You were my guest first.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I told you I needed you. That I didn’t want you to leave my side, and you did. I know why you came with me—to spend time with Whit.”
The guilt is like a heavy, wet blanket. Settling over me, making me weary. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my true intention. Whit and I had sort of split—”
“I don’t care what you and Whit have done. Or haven’t done. Though I’m assuming from all the gossip I hear from the servants, you two have done everything.” She sends me a look, her upper lip curling in disgust. “They all talk about you, you know. I suppose changing cum-stained sheets every day builds resentment.”
I refuse to let her embarrass me. Instead of going into defensive mode, I remain quiet. She contemplates me, reminding me of her brother as she studies me, until she finally sighs.
“Since your swift abandonment left me completely alone in this hell hole, I had to re-strategize. It’s why I convinced Spence to stay with us. Not like he was doing anything for the holiday. Probably would’ve snorted too much coke and fucked too many wannabe models if he’d remained in the city,” Sylvie says bitterly.
Still, I say nothing, wondering if they’ve had sex yet.
I’m guessing no.
“Whit is overwhelming, I get it. And from what I hear, he’s completely enamored with you,” Sylvie says, her tone haughty.
I frown. “What did you hear?”
“At Leighton’s party, the gossip was rampant. Everyone witnessed that peculiar discussion between Monty and Whit,” Sylvie says, looking down her nose at me. “How in the world did you get Monty on your side so quickly?”
“He found me crying after he had a tryst with some unknown jock who enjoys sucking his dick,” I tell her truthfully.
Sylvie bursts out laughing, and hearing it gives me hope. “I can hear Monty say that. I’m sure it was Ty Peters. He’s so over the top with his maleness, it wouldn’t surprise me at all that he enjoys a dick in his mouth on occasion.”
I have no idea who he is, and it doesn’t matter. I can’t get past how I hurt Sylvie’s feelings, and how badly I need her forgiveness. She’s only ever been kind to me. One of the only people at the entirety of Lancaster Prep who has.
“I hate that I disappointed you,” I tell her, my voice soft. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sylvie. It’s just—”
“Boys. They’re infuriating and wonderful, all at once. Aren’t they? And please, I need no details when it comes to you and my brother,” she says. “I’ve heard enough already.”
“How are you and Spence this week? Enjoying each other’s company?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I wish we were having as much fun as you two are having,” she says drolly, just before I see a flicker of disappointment in her gaze. “He’s terrified of me.”
“What? How?”
“Scared I’ll break. I’m fragile, don’t you know.”
“You’re the one who always talks about dying,” I remind her.
A sigh leaves her and she sips from her latte. “I suppose I can’t win.”
I watch her continue sipping from the delicate cup, then turn my gaze to the window. It’s a sunny morning, but the wind is whipping the trees, making them sway wildly. I see two male figures standing out in the distance. Similar heights. Their heads bent close together. At first, I think it’s Whit and Spence.
But no, it’s Whit and his father.
Frowning, I tear my gaze away from them, trying to ignore the sudden lump in my stomach. We sit in silence, Sylvie scrolling on her phone and drinking her coffee. Me chewing on my thumbnail as I watch Whit talk to his father. I can’t see their faces from this distance, but they both seem tense. It scares me.
I can’t look away, filled with worry. His father has great influence over him. Of course, he does. Augustus Lancaster is a powerful man, and Whit is heir to the Lancaster name. He will do whatever his father asks, no question.
“He doesn’t approve,” Sylvie says out of nowhere.
Whit takes a step back, and even from this distance, I can tell he’s angry. His body is rigid, his mouth open. As if he can’t stop talking. Or he might even be yelling. “Who doesn’t approve?”
“My father. He doesn’t approve of you. And he definitely doesn’t approve of you and Whit together.” I glance over at Sylvie to find her watching me, her lips pursed, her eyes wide. “Not sure if he approves of you as a friend of mine either.”
Unease slips over me. “What are you saying, Sylvie?”
She sets the cup onto the tiny table beside her chair, regarding me with a look of pity in her eyes. “My parents gave me a little lecture this morning at breakfast.”
“What about?” I ask carefully.
She shrugs. “You. And Whit. And how they don’t want you here, ruining everything.”
“What exactly am I ruining?” I ask, my voice faint. I’ve been waiting for this moment, but as time went on and we got deeper into the week, I figured I’d dodged it. Their disapproval.
Silly me. I was wrong.
“Whit’s plans. His life. You’re not supposed to be a part of it,” Sylvie says, as if it’s as simple as that.
But life isn’t simple. She of all people should realize this.
“Aren’t you tired of having your parents telling you what to do? They control your every move. You’re sixteen, Sylvie. Don’t you plan on leaving the nest? Going to college? Or does your mother have a say in your future plans too?” I ask, my tone snotty.
Sylvie’s eyes narrow as she contemplates me, and this is the moment where I realize I made a mistake.
I took it too far.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, or what it’s like, being a part of this family. One of the most important families in this country, if not the world. Our place in society is firmly rooted, and we can’t afford to let it be ruined by some stupid, whorish girl who’s set her sights on us. You’re just on the fringe. Always on the outskirts, the sad little girl staring longingly in the window.” Sylvie sneers. “Just like your mother, I hear.”
I gape at her. “Sylvie…”
“Stop.” She holds up a hand. “You don’t care about me. I don’t think you ever really did.”
“That’s not true. You were the only one kind enough to reach out to me at Lancaster,” I remind her. “No one else wanted to be my friend. Whit convinced everyone—”
“Right. He had everyone hating you, while I was thinking of how I could become your friend just to piss him off.” Her smile is cruel, and I feel like it’s a lie. She truly wanted to be my friend, right? I watch as she grabs her cup and takes another dainty sip. “I think it’s best if you go back to campus a little early. Say…first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Why?” I ask incredulously, wishing Whit were here. With us. He’d defend me, right? Tell Sylvie to stop being such a bitch?
Would he?
Sylvie slams her cup onto the nearby table and leans forward in her chair, her narrowed gaze aimed at me. “Listen. You just used me to get to spend a week alone with Whit. So you can fuck him into thinking you’re the perfect woman for him. I always thought Whit was smarter than that, but clearly you have a magical vagina because it’s all he can think about. And now, somehow you’ve convinced him to go against everything our family stands for.”
My mouth pops open, ready to defend myself, but she keeps talking.
“Mother hates you. Calls you the daughter of the slut who broke our family apart, and when she says it like that, when I see what you’re doing with Whit. To Whit. To all of us…” She clamps her lips together, studying me with complete disdain. “I have to agree with her.”
I rise to my feet on shaky legs, praying I don’t collapse. “Sylvie. Please. You’re my only friend. I swear I didn’t use you to get closer to Whit.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she says, her voice filled with disgust. She averts her head, staring out the window. “They’re plotting how to get rid of you right now, I hope you know. Mother doesn’t want to see you at the table for dinner. A meal where we’re supposed to discuss what we’re thankful for. She forbids it.”
Forbids it. I suppose I have to agree with her demands, since this is her house.
“You really didn’t believe the two of you could be in an actual relationship, did you?” Sylvie faces me once more, her gaze searching. “Oh, look at you. You did. You probably believe him fucking you constantly is a sign of—love.”
Tears threaten and I will them from my eyes. I can’t do this. I can’t cry. I can’t.
I won’t.
“It’s not,” she says flatly. “He’s done this before. You’re not the first. And you certainly won’t be the last.”
We stare at each other, Sylvie’s expression oh so cold.
“You know who you remind me of right now?” I ask her, my tone deceptively soft.
Sylvie raises her brows. “Who?”
“Your bitch of a mother. You’re exactly like her, Sylvie.” I turn on my heel and leave the room, hurrying blindly down the corridor, tears blurring my vision. I don’t know why Sylvie had to be so cold. Her words cut like a knife, destroying me.
Was it all a façade? Her friendship, my relationship with Whit. Was it all fake?
It had to be.
I see the staircase that leads to the guest wing and I hurry toward it, running up the stairs, about to turn toward my bedroom when I hear a voice call out.
“Summer. I’d like to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”
Ice-cold dread slides down my spine and I turn to find Sylvia Lancaster standing in front of me, impeccable in wide leg black trousers and a soft cream-colored sweater with a glittery flowered broach pinned to her right shoulder. A Chanel piece, I’m sure. Her blonde hair is sleek and smooth, tucked behind both ears and her lips are coated in red.
The color of blood.
“I was just going to my room—” I start, pausing when she smiles.
It’s not friendly. Not at all.
“I’ll only take a few minutes of your time. I promise. Please.” She inclines her head. “Would you care to see my salon?”
I’ve seen it. Whit sprawled me out across the massive desk only yesterday, pulling down my panties with eager fingers, pressing my thighs apart and licking me until I came with a sigh. A moan.
“Yes. Please,” I say with a weary smile. Only I would say please to the woman who’s probably going to destroy me with a few choice words right now. Sylvie already did her damage. I’m barely holding it together as it is.
Sylvia leads me toward the double doors of her salon, swinging one open and striding inside. I follow after her, noting that she doesn’t bother closing the door. Giving us no privacy.
I guess she doesn’t care who hears what she’s about to say.
“Please. Sit.” She indicates a delicately wrought chair and I settle in, watching as she stands behind her desk, that pleasant smile still on her face. “Have you enjoyed your time here this week?”
“I have,” I say with a nod, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“Wonderful. I’m sure the tour Whit has taken you on has been most satisfying.” Her smile never falters.
“He’s shown me some of the estate, yes.”
“I’m meaning the special little tour. The one where he fucks you everywhere he can, no?” Her thin eyebrows rise as she points at the top of her desk. “Including here? What did he do to you yesterday, hmm? Fuck you? Go down on you? Or perhaps you sucked his cock.”
Horror rises, stealing my breath. I gape at her, unable to answer.
“You think no one sees what you’re doing? There are people all over this house, and the majority of them work for me. You don’t think they don’t tell me what’s going on? What they see? Hear? Smell? We’re not blind, Summer. We see you. It’s quite obvious, what you’re doing,” Sylvia says.
I blink at her, my brain scrambling. It’s exactly what Sylvie said to me only minutes ago. The servants. They’re talking. They see everything. How do I excuse my behavior to this woman? She’s right. We’ve been all over this house, fucking. Kissing in dark corners. Touching each other. Laughing. It’s been wonderful.
Knowing Whit’s mother is aware of every single thing we’ve done is…devastating.
Their knowledge of our times together taints everything.
“The manipulation of my son ends now.” Sylvia leans forward, opening a desk drawer and reaches inside for something. “I found this.”
My journal lands with a loud slap in the middle of her desk. I stare at it, horrified, before my gaze jerks to hers. “Wh-where did you get that?”
“It was in Whit’s bag. It’s your journal. Don’t bother denying it.” She cracks it open, riffling through the pages, going straight to the back. The section where my darkest secrets lie. “It’s rather interesting, all the details you shared. Care to hear it?”
“No,” I say, but she ignores me and starts reading it instead.
It’s my fault they’re dead. I tipped over the candle when I left Yates’ room. I did it on purpose, after what he did to me. He was especially brutal tonight. Saying horrible things. Holding me down as he fucked me. I hated every minute of it, but I took it. The anger rising inside of me with his every thrust. Crying in frustration when my body betrayed me and I came. Oh, how he loved that. God, I hate him.
Once he was finished with me, I said I would tell his father what he’s been doing to me, and he laughed.
Laughed.
So I lay there quietly, knowing he would soon fall asleep. And he did. He’s so predictable. The moment I heard him begin to snore, I slipped out of bed. I slipped on my underwear, grateful I still had my shirt on. He doesn’t bother with any sort of foreplay or undressing me anymore, he just goes straight to fucking. Once I was dressed, and collected anything that belonged to me, I left the room.
And purposely knocked over the candle on the dresser.
I figured he would wake up when he smelled the smoke. It would’ve taken nothing to put the fire out. He had a giant water bottle sitting on his bedside table. He could’ve doused it out with that.
He never woke up. The fire grew while we all slept. Even I fell asleep, my anger leaving me exhausted. Spent. I was awoken by my mother frantically shaking me. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me outside. Yates and Jonas were still in the house. We left them in there. They both died in their beds. Smoke inhalation, the police told us later. They most likely never woke up, never knew what happened.
But I knew.
I killed them.
Sylvia slaps the journal shut with one hand, her smile menacing as she studies me. “I was fully prepared to pay you off, you know. I even wrote you a check for a most generous sum.”
“I would’ve never taken it,” I tell her with conviction.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, because I no longer need to give it to you. This is enough.” She holds the journal up. “You leave this house right now, and you will never talk to my son again. Understood?”
My heart races and I struggle to breathe. “And if I don’t do what you want?”
“Then I will turn this journal over to the police department. Or better yet, the arson investigator who was originally assigned to the case. I’m sure he’d love to read this.”
“You wouldn’t.” I’m testing her, but I already know her answer.
“I would,” she says firmly, opening the drawer once more and dropping my journal inside. “Your mother would lose everything. The house, the money she inherited, her friends, her social status, whatever’s left of it. Everything. She’d be broke, just like before. And so would you. I can destroy your entire life with one phone call. Do you really want to risk it?”
I say nothing. There’s nothing I can say. Everything is true, what I wrote in that journal. How did she get it? And worse, why did Whit bring it with him here? Why would he do that? Was he in on this all along? Did he do this to ruin me too?
“It was never going to last,” she practically croons, her voice soft, her gaze hard. “Just because you fucked my son doesn’t mean you get a piece of the Lancaster fortune. It didn’t work for your mother. It won’t work for you either.”
A tear streaks down my cheek and I dash it away with trembling fingers, angry at myself for showing emotion.
“You have thirty minutes. I’ll have a car waiting for you. I want you gone before the guests arrive. Go pack your pitiful little bag. Now.”
I jump to my feet and hurry for the open double doors.
“Don’t bother looking for Whit either. He already knows you’re leaving,” she calls after me.
Her words make me flinch but I don’t turn around. I don’t say anything at all. I enter the corridor to find Sylvie there, spying on our conversation.
“I’m sure you’re happy,” I tell her as I turn on my heel and head for the guest wing.
“I didn’t know she had anything on you. I swear,” she says, trailing after me.
I turn on her, making her stop short. “Don’t lie. You’re all in this together. Are you all so twisted that you love nothing more than destroying someone completely? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sylvie parts her lips, but says nothing. I think I stunned her silent.
“Never been called out for your shit before, have you? Little miss, ‘oh, I’m dying’. Looking for attention. The middle child. The forgotten child. You’re pitiful,” I say, all the anger I’d been holding on to while her mother spoke to me spilling out. “I hope you’re happy with your mom dragging you around to every doctor for the rest of your short, miserable life.”
I stride away from her, noting the unmistakable sight of tears streaming down her face. Seeing them makes me feel bad, but I also don’t care. I’m hurting too much. I feel used. Beat up.
By all of them.
It doesn’t take me long to pack up all of my belongings. I didn’t bring much. And anything Sylvie bought me when we went shopping—and there were a few items—I leave them all on the unmade bed in a pile. I don’t want any of her so-called gifts. I sling my duffel bag strap over my shoulder and march out of that stupid, ridiculously huge house with my head held high.
The same driver who brought us here waits for me, standing by the town car. He opens the back passenger side door for me and I slip inside, keeping my duffel with me even though he offers to put it in the trunk.
I trust no one handling my things. I’m sure he ratted me out to Sylvia Lancaster. About my interludes with Whit in the back seat of this very car. Why didn’t we ever take Whit’s car? We were so stupid.
Careless.
We drive along the winding driveway, and I study the landscape as we pass by. It’s beautiful. Perfect. Cold. Lifeless.
That’s how I feel. Dead inside.
We approach the gates, and they automatically open, revealing a car waiting on the other side. A sleek Rolls with a handsome man driving. A beautiful woman seated beside him. As we pass by, I spot the blonde head in the back seat, our gazes connecting for the briefest moment.
Leticia. Her family is coming to Thanksgiving dinner.
Of course.
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver, who lifts his gaze to mine in the rearview mirror. “Can you take me to the train station?”
“I was given explicit orders to take you straight to Lancaster Prep,” he says.
“I’d rather you take me to the train station. I need to go see my mother. She’s in Manhattan,” I tell him, my voice firm. “Please.”
He drives for a while, his hands gripping the steering wheel perfectly, at ten and two. I have my permit, but I haven’t gotten my license yet. When you live in the city, what’s the point? I never needed it.
I wish I had it now.
“I will take you to the train station,” he finally says.
Relief makes me slump into the seat. “Thank you,” I murmur as I pull out my phone to check if I have any messages from Whit.
Of course, I have none.
