Chapter 1

Shay-Lee

The cold January air hit my skin as I stood on the balcony of our suite, overlooking the city of London. Living in California, I wasn't used to this weather, yet I hardly noticed the pain on my bare feet, standing in the snow coating the ground. My skin stung from the frost, but I welcomed the ache. Somehow, I learned that temporary moments like this helped silence my mind.

The last time I stood on the edge of a building and looked down at the possibility of ending my miserable life was becoming a fogged memory. It seemed so long ago now, like a distant dream. The truth was, I didn't always want to die. At least, that was what I told myself. But there were times I wanted it more than taking my next breath. Moments where death seemed like such an easy solution to ending my pain. The last time I felt this way was nearly two months ago.

The night of Halloween.

My body had been so full of drugs and pain that I was beyond lost. Ready to let go and end my hell, my fingers began losing their grip on the rail, when someone pulled me back. For weeks, I had no idea who my savior had been. While his face was blurred in my memory, the warmth of his touch wasn't. Neither were his arms that held me with strength no one ever had before and the words he'd whispered in my ear until the sun came up, making me believe even someone like me deserved salvation.

Ever lay a hand on one of my friends again and I'll push you off that railing myself.

Those were the words my savior whispered in my ear a few weeks later, while choking me until I lost consciousness. Turned out, he really wasn't a savior or a hero but a monster. The same as me—a fucked-up monster. It was only then, when he whispered those words, that I realized it was him.

Diesel.

The man who hated me to my core and who I hated back was the man from the balcony, the one who saved my life.

Moving my hand to my neck, I traced my ice-cold skin, where he had his fingers wrapped around it. How inviting the pain had felt and how intoxicating those mere seconds of voidness were before he let go. A shudder that had nothing to do with the cold swept up my spine, and I inhaled a sharp breath.

"What are you doing standing out here?" a snarky voice asked from behind me, snapping me out of my memories. I didn't bother to turn around, knowing who it was.

"Don't touch me," I hissed as the man tried to lay a robe over my naked shoulders. Now he wanted me dressed?

"I remember you having a completely different attitude last night."

Gritting my teeth, I clenched my hands into tight fists and held back from answering the scum.

"After all, you were moaning so loud. Did you enjoy it?" The sickening joy that came with his sadistic question repulsed me.

Furious, I turned to look at him. Orson stood two inches taller than my six-foot frame. The mean son of a bitch was in his mid-thirties and had been working as my father's personal bloodhound since his early twenties. Nothing about this man was pleasant, from his pale eyes, which were the color of mold, to his combed-back, dark hair and chiseled jaw that made him look more like a model than a monster. But that's what he was. A cold-blooded monster. So was my father.

But that was Orson. Beautiful on the outside and rotten on the inside. It was why he fit perfectly into our life. On the surface, everything seemed glamorous, only it wasn't. And the act we put on couldn't be further from the truth. Underneath our ridiculous wealth was a twisted reality hidden behind a wall of deception. Fake smiles, parties, benefits, donations. My father was a master of deception, and with the mask he put on, he succeeded in making the world believe he was a saint.

"Did I enjoy being raped?" I hissed back, trying to ignore Orson's vile smile. I knew that other than rubbing the sadistic parts in him the right way, throwing the word rape in his direction would do nothing. Not that I was surprised. The sad truth was that word had lost its meaning long ago.

"Rape?" he tsked, looking rather pleased. "A whore is never raped." He reached to touch me, but the moment his hand caressed my skin, I slapped it away.

"Ever touch me again and I'll tell him." If there was one thing Orson and I shared, it was the fear of my father. "I'll tell him everything." I made my threat clear while holding his stare.

"No, you won't," he said, stepping closer and looming over me. "Because if you do, he'll blame you. Sure, he'll get rid of me, but imagine the ways he'll punish you." His predatory eyes were locked with mine, feeding on my fear.

Not knowing how to reply, I broke our stare and looked down. I was completely powerless.

"That's a good boy." He patted my cheek and made that clicking sound he always did with his tongue that reminded me of a spoiled child who was fed up with the conversation. "Your father is waiting to eat breakfast with you," he said, as if he didn't just terrorize me on top of humiliating me.

"Okay," I whispered back, knowing better than to say anything else.

"Is something wrong with your breakfast? Are the fruits not fresh enough?" my father asked from the other side of the table, watching me play with the sliced fruit on my plate, moving them around in circles. Like any other day since arriving here, breakfast was served in my father's suite, where we had it together by the balcony.

"They're okay," I said quietly and poked a strawberry with my fork.

"So why aren't you eating?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You've already lost weight. It's about time you regain it."

"I'm not hungry," I repeated myself, and he sighed.

The sound of cutlery filled the silence until he cleared his throat. "I've spoken with the rehab center."

I looked up, narrowing my eyes at him. Was he talking about—

"You mean the physiotherapy center in New York?"

Cleaning the corner of his mouth with a napkin, he then nodded. "Yes."

"And?" I asked impatiently. Finally, something I was interested in. Before coming here a week ago, I was forced to let go of my Jordan.

"The doctors are optimistic," he said, not giving me any more information. I wouldn't need him to tell me how Jordan was doing if I had my phone, but he'd taken it away as soon as we boarded his private plane.

One may think being here, in this fancy suite overlooking one of the prettiest cities in the world, was a privilege, a reward even, but it wasn't. It was a punishment.

"What else did they say? Will he be able to walk soon?" After London and Berlin Kingston, the scum who used to be our friends, crushed every bone in his left leg, Jordan had a long recovery waiting for him. Thinking about him this week was what kept me sane. I thought about everything we'd gone through since the beginning of the year, from manipulating the guy to actually caring for him. My feelings had grown deeper than I ever thought was possible. I tried to force myself to forget him, but it was impossible. While I was worried for him, I also missed him.

Not him. You miss the distraction. The way he helps you forget.

"It will take time, but they promised me he'd be able to walk as if nothing had ever happened." Dad smiled at me softly, his blue eyes shining with the light coming from the snow outside.

"I want to talk to him." I bit the inner side of my cheek with pleading in my eyes. "Please, Dad."

"You know you can't."

"I'll be good, I promise. I won't cause any more trouble. Please."

"Oh, Shay-Lee." He put down his cutlery and crossed his legs. While I was still dressed in the robe Orson gave me earlier, my father was already in one of his tailored suits. He took off the jacket for breakfast, but the white dress shirt he wore sat perfectly over his wide shoulders and fit his body to perfection. "Talking with that boy won't do you any good, nor will it do him. After all, you're the reason he's there in the first place."

The bitter taste of guilt filled my mouth as my gut twisted with pain. "I wasn't the one who hurt him—"

"We both know that isn't the truth," he said so confidently, making me doubt whatever I was about to say next. "You said so yourself, remember?"

Did I remember? I had no idea. Everything was a blur. Events were mixed up, and sometimes I wasn't sure what was real or not. Like now, for example, he was being so nice. Since we got here a week ago, he hadn't hit me. Not once. He dined with me and bought me whatever he thought I wanted, pampering me with gifts and kind words. We even watched a fashion show together and did some horseback riding. His kindness left me confused, frightened, and vulnerable.

"Shay-Lee." His calling my name snapped me out of my head, and I noticed he was now crouched before me. My heart raced faster as nerves struck me at his proximity. "You said so yourself that you've hurt that boy and admitted that you shouldn't be with him."

"But you're the one who told me to end it," I whispered, my eyes focused on his hand that rested on my knee before the glint of light coming from the silver ring he always wore on his index finger caught my attention. I wanted to push him away at the same time I didn't.

"Only because I knew you'd end up hurt. The same as with Miles."

Miles? I haven't even thought about him for a while. Why bring him up?

"You get so easily attached to people, and that's dangerous. Haven't I taught you better?"

I nodded. He had. Since I was a child, my father made sure I knew that no one could ever be trusted, including myself, and that getting close to others meant getting hurt. The only person I could trust was him.

"If you decide to talk to him, it's up to you. I simply don't want you to get hurt again."

He stood and rested his hand on my cheek. "I want you to be happy, Shay-Lee. That's all I've ever wanted for my son."

For a mere moment, I wanted his loving touch, but I knew better. How many times had he used that same hand to hurt me? Swallowing my spit was like swallowing daggers. I wanted to recoil from his tender touch, but instead, I eased my face back. "I want to go home."

I didn't like it here. It confused me, and my mind felt weak. Being away from everything I knew, I grew detached from reality. It was easy to fall into his trap of kindness. And a trap it was. He didn't care about me. He only cared about himself. At home, I had more independence, which was everything to me. I wasn't forced to be with him so much and wasn't condemned to his sick games that messed with my mind, making me believe he loved me.

"I'm not feeling good here. I want to go home," I pleaded again, looking him in the eyes.

His frozen stare studied me in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity before the corner of his lips curved into a slight smile. "Okay, you can go back today."

That sounds almost too easy.

Returning to his seat, he fixed the sleeves of his dress shirt and then took a sip of his water. "Since I still have work here, Orson will escort you."

I knew it was too good to be true.

"No." My objection was too quick and caught his attention. Shit.

"No?" His head quirked, and his eyes narrowed, making me think of a predator homing in on its prey.

Knowing I'd made a mistake, I looked around the room while nibbling on my bottom lip. "You know I don't like him" was all that I said, and foolish me thought it was enough.

"Orson."

"Dad." My eyes snapped to him with panic.

A moment after, the door opened and Orson stepped in.

"Sir?"

Leaning back against his chair and with his eyes focused on me, my dad spoke. "Shay-Lee doesn't want you to escort him back home. Why's that?" His voice might have sounded calm, but Orson and I recognized the danger lurking in his words.

"I don't know, sir."

Idiot.Playing dumb with my dad was always the worst option, and from the smile that crept across my father's lips, I knew he was now officially pissed.

"You are not to speak with my son unless I say so, which I haven't. Therefore, I can't think of why he'd so strongly protest my offering that you'd keep him safe on his journey back home." As Orson remained silent, my father continued. "Could it be that, despite my clear orders, you've spoken to him?"

With his hands clasped behind his back, Orson looked to the floor. "I'm sorry, sir."

Taking a deep breath, my father got up and crossed the short distance until he was face-to-face with him. "I don't recall asking for an apology. I asked a simple question. Did you speak to him?" The tension in the room rose, and anxiety filled my insides. I was afraid because if Orson told my dad the truth, it would be the end of me, too.

Clenching his jaw, Orson looked anywhere but at my father. "I only said that you were waiting to eat breakfast with him. That's all."

"So you've been to his room?"

"Only for a minute," he lied, and the silence following his words told me my father knew it. Looking at me over his shoulder, my dad waited for me to either deny or admit his suspicions.

"It's true," I said without hesitating. "He just told me you were waiting. I was angry because I didn't appreciate him coming into my room uninvited. But nothing happened, Dad." His penetrating stare hardened as his cold eyes pierced into my soul, and my body froze from the inside as it did so many times before. Whenever he looked at me that way, I was reminded of how powerless I was. But, to my father's sorrow, or pride, he'd raised an excellent liar. So much so that not even he could spot my lies.

With his hands shoved in his pockets, he looked back at Orson. "Make sure it never happens again." He didn't need to say anything else; the threat his words carried was enough for Orson to get the message.

"Very well, sir," Orson said and turned to walk out of the room, making sure not to look in my direction.