Being me is easy.
There are a few recipes for success.
One, always smile.
And that’s it. You don’t need anything else. There’s some philosopher who said that people lose their fight, their anger, and even feel humiliated when you counter their maliciousness with a smile.
Though I suspect he meant it as in, Try to be good people, kids. I must’ve missed that part somehow in my philosophical journey, which is basically listening to Cole spout nonsense about the latest book he’s read.
Why waste your life reading books when you can live it? When you can breathe it into your lungs and exhale it back to the world?
While nerds like Cole drown in books, I’m giving authors inspiration and writing material. My life is the best form of storytelling to ever exist.
Don’t thank me yet.
I yawn as I stumble from the bed and to a robotic standing position. The first weird thing I notice is the absence of meat. I mean, girls. You know, their limbs are usually draped around me in pairs of three or four — I don’t have a limit.
Today, no one is in my bed.
Surely I didn’t smoke enough weed to imagine an entire fun night, right? Fuck, if I did, I need more of that shit the Liverpudlian sold me.
I stagger to the bathroom and have a quick shower. That’s not enough to wake me up, so I stand at the sink and splash water on my face. When I lift my head, my expression greets me in the mirror.
They say you know how you feel about yourself by the way you react to the reflection of your face. If you scowl, you’re not happy. If you grimace, you have confidence issues.
My face moves into an automatic smile. Fucking liars. There are other types of people, like me. Try finding a category for me, fuckers.
I brush my teeth and pay a morning tribute to Ron Astor the Second. Yes, that’s my dick’s name, and yes, I always need to give him the morning routine. Usually, there’s a girl’s mouth willing to ease him into the day, but today he had to restart his affair with my hand.
Seriously, though. Was last night real, or do I need more weed?
I step back into my room to find Lars smoothing my pressed uniform on the made-up bed. I swear he has supersonic speed. When the hell did he even make the bed?
The room is all bright and shiny and smells of some lavender shit. We’re only missing unicorns for the picture-perfect period drama.
“Morning, Lars.” I head to my closet. “Today, we have dinner. No uniform.”
“You said to remind you to wear the uniform so his lordship and her ladyship don’t suspect you skipped school.” He speaks in a professional old BBC-like tone. He watches Downton Abbey a lot and takes this whole thing way too seriously. I even suspect he has a little black book with notes tucked somewhere.
Lars is in his late forties with a tall, slim build. He’s wearing a black butler’s tux with the bowtie and the white gloves. Since he’s the head butler, he makes everyone dress like him, and he’s a Nazi about it.
His blue eyes might appear polite, but he’ll judge you with them all the way to infinity if you don’t stick out your pinkie while drinking the tea he brings.
I snap my fingers at him. “Thank you for reminding me of my genius thoughts, Lars.”
“Any time, sir.”
“Father and Mother aren’t here — forget the sir.”
“Yes, young lord.”
“You’re not funny, Lars.”
His face remains stoic — snobbish, actually, which is his default. You never know if he’s judging or teasing, like he did just now.
I pull the trousers up my legs then my memory filters back in.
Fuck.
Mum and Dad are returning today. That’s why the girls disappeared and…
The party.
“Is everything in order?” I ask Lars, looking at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Just like this room.”
“Perfect. You’re the best, Lars.” Not only because he covers up for me, but because he does a brilliant job at it too.
He doesn’t want my parents to be disappointed in me, so he and I struck a deal as soon as I took a special interest in partying.
“I know I am,” he says with a cool expression.
“I’m taking it back.”
“With all due respect, you cannot take a compliment back.”
“Watch me. There. It’s taken back.”
I button my shirt and then my jacket in record time. Being late is kind of my thing. I even dress in the car sometimes.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Lars approaches me and smooths my jacket with a few professional tugs. “Now, please do something about your hair.”
“Are you saying my hair is a mess?”
“Your words, not mine, sir.” His tone doesn’t change.
“Screw you, Lars, mmmkay? If you knew what my hair witnessed yesterday, you wouldn’t be saying those things.”
“I assume you washed it?”
“I’m curious, Lars. Are you still a virgin? Because if you are, I can plan an orgy for you.”
His expression remains the same. “You cannot even plan your day.”
“Planning my day isn’t my specialty. Orgies are.”
“And I should be impressed?”
“Fuck right, you should.”
“Pass.”
“Lars!”
“Yes, young lord?”
“I’m the best at what I do.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Lars leaves and I follow behind him, enumerating my qualities so he’d agree. Since I was a kid, it’s always been this way with him. After all, I spend more time with him than my own parents. It’s cooler, too, since he’s the best party planner in the whole of London.
We go out of my room and take the marble stairs. Our mansion — no, the Astor family mansion — has stood here for centuries, since the time of Henry V.
There are two sweeping stairs that split the entrance hall. Portraits of my dead ancestors stare back at me with snobbish haughty expressions. We all share the nose, which is Dad’s pride and the reason he knew I’m without a doubt his son.
His words, not mine.
I smile at them, too. What? Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some love.
As Lars said, everything is in place. The kitchen staff buzz around the dining room carrying utensils and whatnot. The whole house smells of jasmine, of Mother, of her spring presence and all that jazz. It’s the only scent I don’t resent too much.
Aside from weed.
John runs in the entrance, catching his breath. He’s Lars’ assistant, and yes, Lars is prim and proper and needs assistants and calendars and order.
“His lordship is here,” John shouts, like in some play.
And just like a play, the scene shifts with a shuffling of feet, and everyone stands in a line, like they’re in the military or something.
I plaster a smile on as the double doors open and in comes my father in all his lordship glory.
Okay, that’s a lie — there’s no glory, just the title. And okay, maybe the glory follows the title.
He was right to say I’m his son; it shows. We’re about the same height, but I’m a bit leaner. His face has gained a lethal edge over the years, giving him an older masculine look, nothing like some of the boyishness still scattered on mine.
We share the eyes and the proud Astor nose, as he calls it. I’m a replica, a carbon copy.
The future of the witch coven. Sorry, I mean the clan.
A tiny woman has her frail arm in his, seeming so little in comparison to his otherworldly existence, but the expression on her face is anything but little.
She’s listening to something he’s saying, and her face shines with compassion, affection…love.
Fuck how much she loves that tyrant. How much she went through just to be with him, leaving not only her country but also her family to be by his side.
Lord Astor’s face remains blank as he talks to her, no expression, no smile, no nothing. We agree that Dad is a robot, and by we, I mean Lars and me.
Fine, Lars just listened with a judgmental expression while I informed him of that fact.
The staff bows upon my parents’ entrance. It’s been…what? A few months since they graced me with their presence?
They’ve been doing this a lot lately, disappearing to go to conferences, or more like my father dragging my mother with him to the other ends of the world like India and fucking Australia.
They used to do that when I was a kid, but I thought it was over around middle school. Nope, they’re back at it like a druggies searching for their high.
Not that I’m complaining. After all, I get to throw all the parties I want in this mansion every night. Win-win.
The moment Mother’s eyes fall on me, they brighten and soften. I almost imagine she appears too weak and thin, or is it only her pale complexion? She releases my father and runs towards me, ignoring her long dress.
“Mon chou!”
Both Dad and I reach out for her when she trips, but she catches herself at the last second and squeezes me in a tight embrace. I have to lean down so she can rest her cheek on my shoulder. She smells of jasmine, of warmth.
Safety.
“I missed you so much.” She speaks with a slight French accent that she hasn’t been able to lose even after living in England for twenty-three years.
“Missed you, too, Mother.” And I mean it. Maybe I missed her more than I’ll ever admit.
Her absence triggered something I don’t even like to think about.
There was no safety or jasmine — just like that time.
“Mon petit ange.” She pulls back to cradle my cheeks with her frail hands. “Although you’re not little anymore. I should start calling you mon grand.”
“That’s right. Have you seen these muscles?” I grin, and this time it’s not automatic or forced.
“Oh, I have. You’ve grown so much, and I wasn’t there.” A sob tears from her throat.
“Mother…?”
“Charlotte.” My father is by her side in a second, wrapping a hand around her shoulder. It’s his way to control her, to have her act the way he likes.
As if he pushed a button, she straightens, wiping under her eye with her thumb. “It must be exhaustion from the flight.”
Or your husband’s controlling fucking nature.
“I’ll freshen up before we receive the guests. I’m so happy you decided to do this.” She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek, her lips trembling before she pulls away. “I won’t leave this time, mon chou, I promise.”
“Charlotte.” Father warns her in his usual Do it my way or I’ll throw you in the highway tone.
“I’ll be right back, mon amour.” She kisses him on the cheek, too, before heading to the stairs.
Father motions for Lars to follow her, and he does so with a nod. The rest of the staff scatter like ants with another motion of his finger.
Mon amour.
That word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. How can he be her love? He’s her tyrant.
The Tyrant of the Estate.
I’ve been trying to convince Cole to write that book. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Dad continues watching my mother until she disappears up the stairs. When he finally focuses on me, his blank expression is back.
I smile. “Hey, Father.”
That’s what’s expected of me: a smile, stellar behaviour, and to shut the fuck up.
Silence remains for a few seconds. My smile doesn’t falter or even flinch. I’m a pro, after all.
“I heard you know your fiancée from school.” He jumps straight to the heart of it in Edric’s typical direct style.
“Which one are we talking about? There have been a few.”
His expression remains the same. “Teal Van Doren.”
“That one. Hmm, I’m sure you know she’s not Ethan’s real daughter, right? With him having Steel as his last name and her being a Van Doren and all that? Are we even sure she’s not from the family of that German Nazi who killed my great-grandfather in World War II?” I motion behind him then make a cross, speaking in a dramatic tone. “Rest in peace. You served our country well.”
“That’s my great-grandfather, not yours, and he died at seventy from pneumonia.”
“Oh, then maybe it’s the one behind me?”
“How about you stop beating around the bush. Do you have something to say to me, Ronan?”
“No?” That wasn’t supposed to come out as a question.
Lars, you fucking fool.
If he mentioned anything about the partying, I’m spiking his precious tea with cheap stuff from the grocery store that his snobby side hates so much. Let’s see how he reacts when I ruin his stash.
“No objections about the engagement?” My father presents it as a question but is, in fact, making it clear that he’ll take no bloody objections.
Not that I would make any.
I know what’s expected of me. When the fish is caught in the net, the smart ones don’t move; if they do, they exhaust what remains of their energy and die faster.
Now, if I store that energy, I get to bargain for greater things. I learnt that by myself, by the way; I didn’t need Cole’s philosophy books.
The moment I was born and my parents decided there was no need for a second child — fuck you, unborn second child, by the way — I was raised to know my duties as the sole heir.
I can do this the easy way, or I can clash with my father and cause my mother pain.
I would never do that — be the source of Mum’s pain, I mean. She’s one of the few reasons why I stay afloat, and I can’t make things ugly for her.
Marriage of convenience is first on the list of mandatory shit to do. I’ll do it one day, as expected of me.
Only that day isn’t today, or even fifteen years from now.
That’s why my little toy will play her part and say no during tonight’s dinner.
I’ve already sent her an instigation she’d be a fool to refuse.
Teal isn’t the first I’ve secretly convinced to refuse the arranged marriage on my behalf. Let’s just say Dad has been trying to set me up with his associates’ daughters for years.
I told Lars Dad is like one of those bored housewives with nothing better to do than play matchmaker. Lars wasn’t amused — not that he ever is.
Teal will bow down like all of them.
My grin widens, and he frowns. I wonder if he knows the type of fuckery my smile hides.
“Not at all, Father. Everything will be perfect.”
