1. Prologue

Prologue

B reathe. Don't forget to breathe. Stop wringing the hem of your dress. Sit up straighter. Face forward. Don't appear irritated by whoever dared to laugh at the back of the room. Ignore the flash of cameras. Remember who you were raised to be.

Despite my inner chastising, each inhale coincides with a stabbing pain in my chest. If I wasn't surrounded by people watching my every move, I'd give into those urges rising within. To scream, lash out and smash a whole bunch of shit. Not the appropriate response in front of the press and celebrities streaming into the room at their leisure.

I steal a glance at the back of the room. Anger flares within me, a brief, hot flame that quickly extinguishes, leaving only the cold emptiness behind. They have no idea what this day means, what I've lost.

The service is twenty-three minutes late so far, and apparently I'm the only one counting.

From my seat in the front row, I watch those shuffling forward to pay their respects to the open casket. I listen to their wishes for eternal peace, and nod politely when they offer rehearsed condolences. The question in their furrowed brows bounces off the practiced mask I keep firmly in place.

What's going to happen to you now? Where are the rest of your family?

Sighing, I stare longingly at the huge portrait at the front of the room. Usually, the conservatory is my favorite place to be. Filled with light and the scent of freshly cut grass drifting in from the rolling gardens. But not today. Today, the plush cream sofa, hanging plants and rows of bookcases have been removed. Instead, chairs dressed with teal bows divide the guests into two clear categories either side of the walkway. Those who knew my mom personally, and those who wish they had.

A hushed silence settles behind me, the low click of the rear doors being closed exploding within my head. I quickly glance to the wall of glass before me, dampening the impulse to vault over my mom's casket, use my body to smash through and run until I collapse. The press, who have permission to be here, would have a field day. My lips part, precious air slipping inside.

Don't freak out. Don't make a scene.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the grief pressing down on me. It's a suffocating, relentless force, threatening to pull me under. How am I supposed to keep going without her? She was my anchor, my guide through every storm. Now, I'm adrift, drowning even, and no one nearby is coming to save me.

My gaze returns to the portrait, and I imagine her smiling down at me, offering the comfort I so desperately crave. I want to feel her arms around me, hear her voice telling me it's going to be okay. But that's not possible anymore.

There's a brief disturbance before the doors click shut again, snapping me back to the present. I take another deep breath, forcing myself to remain composed. This is what she would have wanted – for me to be strong, to face this with dignity. I can do this. I have to do this. For her.

A body crashes into the seat next to mine, arms locking around my numb torso. I flinch at the sting jolting through my hands, only now realizing my nails were embedded into my palms.

"Shit, Avery. I'm so, so sorry I'm late." My best friend, Meg, whispers as my adoptive father walks down the central aisle. "The security outside is unreal." Using my shoulder to sweep her brunette hair aside, Meg's head nestles in the crook of my neck. Meg's presence is a balm, settling over me like a weighted blanket.

Fuck . I hadn't even considered that she might have been stuck at the gates, no doubt with many others trying to get into the funeral of the year, as if it is a red carpet event. To be fair, I haven't considered anything in the past few weeks I've spent laying in bed.

Tears gather in my eyes, the finality of what's about to happen making me dizzy. I watch the tired, well-dressed man take his place beside his wife's body without really taking notice. Her portrait stares at him, a humble smile on her perfectly painted face. Jade colored eyes glimmer from within the canvas, an incredible accuracy to their unique brightness. She is stunning. Was stunning.

With love in his wrinkled features, Nixon begins to speak with more composure than I could have managed.

"Thank you all for coming. Today, we gather to remember a remarkable woman whose radiant spirit illuminated the lives of all fortunate enough to know her. My beloved Catherine. Her infectious laughter has echoed through every room in this house, and her love, compassion and understanding is what made it a home for our two beautiful children."

Nixon smiles towards me kindly, ignoring the obvious which everyone else has noticed. The empty seat and unclaimed flower buttonhole at my side. "I hope you will join me in celebrating her life and giving her the send-off she deserves."

Nixon continues to deliver a flawless eulogy which drifts between heartfelt and poetic, enthralling those watching within the room and down the camera lens. To the rest of the world, she was a coveted model, an award-winning actress. A charity fundraiser who invested her time and money into saving countless lives - including mine.

I was just a poor, abused girl in the right place at the right time. No one usually adopts an eleven year old, but typically that same coveted model, award-winning actress and charity fundraiser wouldn't have driven in a shady neighborhood and happened to spot said-eleven year old abused girl digging in the trash for food. From the moment she found me, there hasn't been a day that Cathy Hughes hasn't seen me well fed, cared for and loved.

She was the woman who saved me from the depraved life I was born into. The woman who showed me love and warmth. Who would snuggle under a duvet and read with me whenever she wasn't away working. I bite my bottom lip hard. I still can't believe she's gone.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of camera flashes and repetitive eulogies from actors who barely knew her. By the time the service comes to an end, the only thing distracting me from my itchy eyes is the growling in my stomach. I can't remember the last time I ate, as if surviving today was all I could focus on and I didn't spare a thought for what happens now.

Nixon rises from the seat he took beside me, holding out his hand. His peppered dark hair has been styled back from his handsome yet weary face, an impeccably crisp navy suit clinging to his frame that seems at odds with the stubble lining his jaw. Blue eyes settle on me, a look of adoration passing through his features.

"You did good, sweetheart." My chest swells, preceding the dam breaking and all of my withheld emotion flooding free. I need to get out of here. Inhaling my first full breath since I heard of that fatal car crash, I rise to my feet. Nixon and I approach the casket, taking turns to place one last kiss onto her forehead. Long eyelashes fan her rosy painted cheeks, her chocolate brown hair pooling around her favorite chiffon dress.

"Thank you for showing me how to love," I whisper. Nixon catches the tear that leaks from my eye with the back of his hand before it can land, pulling me into his side for a hug. His strong heartbeat and gentle scent of cigar allow me to briefly hide from the imposing stares and cameras.

Bright flashes assault us as we push our way, arm in arm, through the crowd waiting to offer their support. Meg steps into my other side, creating a wall which sees us to the rear conservatory doors. The crowd falls behind, hands patting our backs and stroking my long, blonde hair. More cameras flash, more false sympathy. Shrugging them off, I blink several times to banish the sparks from my vision. All of a sudden, I'm peering up into the most intense emerald green eyes. His presence hits me with the weight of a dumpster truck. I recoil on instinct before the anger breaks through.

"Wyatt." Nixon nods to his son in greeting, not seeming at all pissed Wyatt missed the majority of his own mother's funeral. I reckon Nixon expected nothing less. Wyatt's attention stays focused on me, a scowl forcing his sharp jaw to appear deadly. Dark curls fall into his face; the scruffy skater boy look at odds with the suit and tie sitting lazily on his muscled frame. Leaving the top few buttons of his white shirt undone, the edges of black ink lingers just beneath. I purse my lips.

I refuse to let him intimidate me today.

As soon as the doors are opened at his back, I barge onwards. My shoulder connects with his ribs, hurting at least one of us, and I drag Meg with me. A shudder rolls through my spine, a headache quickly seeping in. I desperately shove aside the awareness of his body, firm and unmovable. The smell of his expensive cologne, the way his green eyes drag over me like prey. Fuck, I really try, and fail miserably.

The cameras follow, constantly flashing, waiting for the moment I snap and give them a real headline. That's the only thought which keeps me from flipping out. Entering the kitchen, I hunt for privacy as the caterers usher everyone else away until they're ready. Meg and I slip behind the door, slumping against wallpaper flaked with real gold.

"Psst," our cook, Nancy, ducks her head around the corner. "We'll direct the guests into the ballroom. Grab what you need and escape while you still can." I manage a small smile at Nancy's wink, her hair neatly contained in its black net. The staff here are like extended family, since I rarely leave the mansion. There's been no need. My tutors come Monday to Friday, Meg is here more than she's home on the weekends and the dance studio is my safe haven. Meg doesn't waste a second, grabbing a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and an entire tray of canapés before we rush upstairs to my bedroom.

Slamming the door shut with her back, Meg hands me the bottle so she can fan herself. "How does Wyatt get hotter every time he comes home?" My mouth drops open and I stumble while kicking off my heels. Dropping heavily on the bed, Meg dives next to me a moment later, her smile too mischievous.

"That's seriously not the first thing you're going to say after I just said goodbye to my mom," I scoff, turning my attention to the bottle's cork. I probably shouldn't drink before the burial, due to take place in the gardens in an hour, but I don't know if I have the energy to leave this room again. I've already put myself through a whole morning of being ogled at. I'm the Rapunzel in this tower, hidden away from view, often left to her own devices. My grief is private, as my life used to be.

"Oh, please," Meg nudges my arm. "You were totally thinking it too." My best friend, ladies and gentlemen, and her uncanny ability to hide any real hint of emotion. I suppose it comes with the territory being a therapist's daughter. My therapist.

Jumping up, Meg locates a black baseball cap, turns it backwards and uses it to pin up her hair. Despite wearing a dress, she gives her best Wyatt impression, and I wish I could say it's the first time I've seen it.

"Yo, Aves. I'm just too manly to admit my feelings, but at least I'm hot," she mutters huskily. There's an excessive amount of jaw stroking and hip jerking. "You know I hate being around you but I'm such a douche, I can't keep my eyes off you." Grabbing a handful of her imaginary ballsack, Meg snarls her top lip and snakes her head from side to side. An uncanny resemblance, truly.

A laugh is forced past my lips. A stab of guilt quickly accompanies it. I shouldn't enjoy any part of today – not even the distractions Meg is trying to provide and especially not at Wyatt's expense. I turn my attention back to popping the champagne with a dramatic flow of bubbles, which Meg rushes to catch in her mouth. I call her a few choice words, taking a swig from the bottle myself. Sinking against my headboard, we sigh in unison.

"He won't stay," I comment into the quiet which settles. My foot is tapping. "He never does." Describing mine and Wyatt's relationship as love/hate is putting it mildly. As long as I'm around, he refuses to spend a single night in his own home, preferring to hide in his fancy boarding school. And in the summers, if all other options fail, he stays in the pool house. Anything to avoid seeing me.

"It's not your fault, Aves. None of it," Meg returns to her own voice, picking at the tray of canapés. "I'm going to miss Cathy too." I lean into her, nodding absentmindedly. I hear her words, I understand their truth, but it doesn't matter. If I wasn't around, Catherine would have spent more time staring at her son's face in real life, rather than through the photographs lining her dresser. I prefer the photos personally; they are the only way I know what Wyatt's smile looks like.

"Hey, remember the time we spent all day trying to make that fort in the living room?" Meg perks up. I smile distantly.

"No matter how hard we tried, it just kept falling down."

"Your mom had barely put down her travel bags when she called for the staff to help us. Within an hour, we had the most epic fort around the TV. It had multiple rooms and snack compartments. We refused to come out, sleeping in there for three days until Nixon started complaining that the manor looked like a squatter's spot." I snort a laugh, drinking more champagne.

"She stayed in there with us, watching old movies, stargazing at the projector. Mom may not have always been here, but when she was, her attention was solely on us." Meg's arm slides around my shoulder, hugging me into her.

"Her attention was solely on you, Aves."

True to my word, I don't resurface for the rest of the day. Meg and I eventually shed our black, tight-fitting dresses and replace them with sweatpants and hoodies. The afternoon is lost to snacking and binging a new romcom series. I barely take any of it in, but the background noise helps to block out the burial happening beyond my balcony. Mom would understand. I've never been one for living in the spotlight. I will grieve on my own terms, in my own time. At some point, I dozed off, only to be woken by Meg sneaking back into bed with a tub of ice cream and two spoons.

Orange tones begin to bleed into the sky through the windows. Car engines signal the departure of guests until the noise on the floor below has decreased significantly. With every muffled goodbye, my heart eases slightly knowing this difficult day is nearly over. I'm practically a puddle of relief when my door abruptly flies open loudly, the intrusion of muscle making me screech .

"Dad's office. Now." Wyatt's deep voice commands our attention, despite speaking fairly quietly. The death glare in his green eyes leaves no room for negotiation, so I jump down from my high bed and gesture for him to lead the way. Three steps out of the door, I stumble and crash into Wyatt's back. He steps aside, watching me fall ass over tit onto the floor.

"You're fucking wasted," he growls in the base of his throat. "Today of all days." Striding away, Wyatt's dress shoes click on the marble staircase until he's out of sight. Meg slides her arms beneath mine, helping me to stand. Her wobbly smile and unfocused eyes aren't any better than mine, as I spy the several wine bottles littering my bedroom floor. Fuck, I didn't even notice her sneaking them in, or that I was drinking all day on effectively an empty stomach.

"You've got this," Meg tries to bolster me. It doesn't help much when I have to hug the railing down the stairs and slide one fluffy sock in front of the other to reach Nixon's office. The door is open, two figures shrouded in the fireplace's glow waiting for me.

"Come on in, sweetheart," Nixon coaxes. I manage to reach the high back armchair and settle myself down, keeping my gaze on the man across the mahogany desk. "Ironic, isn't it?" He chuckles to himself. "The one thing Cathy wanted, and it's finally happened when she's no longer here to see it." There's no need to ask what it is. Wyatt and I haven't willingly been in the same room in years .

Holding a glass of gin in his hand, Nixon seems to have given up on his appearance for today. I'm sure he'd rather a whiskey, but he refuses to stock it. His hair is disheveled, the plum-colored tie hanging uselessly under open buttons to reveal his graying chest hair. Not even the sharp jawline and high cheekbones he and Wyatt share can stop him from appearing defeated in the fire's flickering.

I dare to steal a glance at Wyatt, but he keeps his face forward. A tick beats in his clenched jaw, waiting for Nixon to continue.

"We could have been a proper family. A complete one," he babbles on. I look away, tears blurring in my eyes. If Nixon cracks now, there's no hope for me. Mom was taken from us so suddenly, so viciously. The morticians are miracle workers for the way she appeared today, not a single scratch visible of the car wreckage she was pulled from, killed on impact.

Nixon chuckles to himself again, but his pale eyes look blank and glazed. Throwing the rest of his gin back, Wyatt's scowl deepens in my peripheral vision while I fiddle uncomfortably with the hem of my hoodie.

"Things change, today." Nixon seems to sober slightly, staring intently at Wyatt as if I'm not in the room. "I must return to my business in New York tomorrow evening. It is imperative that Avery is cared for." I chew on the inside of my cheek. I've been left alone many times before, under the supervision of my tutors and the house staff. Keren has upped my therapy sessions to twice a week for the time being, and I have a ballet exam fast approaching. Plenty to keep my mind busy. Nixon thinks carefully over his next words and delivers them with brutal confidence.

"This year's semester is only a few weeks in. I've spoken to Dean O'Sullivan, and Avery starts at Waversea College on Monday morning. I've set her up with a dorm, and you, Wyatt, will look out for her."

The silence which follows is filled with tension; a physical pressure I can feel pushing onto my chest. Wyatt's lack of reaction scares me more than if he'd flipped the table, his eyes turning murderous. More than that, the sinking ball of dread in my stomach explodes, my thoughts racing around my delayed and sloshy brain.

I…I can't leave. I rarely ever leave the mansion. It's my home, a safety barrier between me and the outside world. And Nixon intends to drop me into a school, in Wyatt's dorm building and expect him not to kill me in my sleep? I'm hyperventilating before Wyatt's even blinked.

"Please Nixon," I breathe, layering on the sweet and innocent appeal he usually caves for. "That's really not necessary. I'm happy here on my own. Even if I wasn't about to turn twenty-one, I have everything I need to look after myself. Let me stay," I flutter my lashes for good measure. Nixon's blue eyes soften. Hook, line and sinker. Nixon may be ruthless with everyone else, his son included, but he has always been softer with me. Reaching over, he takes my hand over the desk, stroking the back with his thumb. Wyatt growls once again.

"Seems I'm not needed, as usual. I'll see myself out. Thanks for the party." Wyatt rises from his chair and walks towards the door too damn casually. As if the entire world owes him a favor. Immediately, Nixon drops my hand, his posture strengthening. The emotions so recently swimming in his eyes disappear.

"Don't take another step!" I flinch at the sudden roar, twisting my face away. It's involuntary, but seems to irritate Wyatt further as he tuts. My nostrils flare in irritation. If he'd let me handle this situation delicately, if he'd just kept his mouth shut, Nixon wouldn't now be using his closed fists on the desk to push himself upright. Struggling to calm his voice, Nixon's eyes shoot daggers at Wyatt, still braced by the door.

"You will clear your schedule to show Avery around campus. You will make sure she settles into her new room. You will ensure no one bothers or distracts her from her studies. And so help me, if you want to continue living with my financial support, you will be a suitable guardian to your sister."

"She's not my fucking sister!" Wyatt shouts back and suddenly I'm transported back ten years in my mind. To a long summer in a new house with a spoiled little shit glaring at me. Even back then, his perfectly styled ash brown hair and taste for expensive clothing enhanced the brat he was, thinking he deserved whatever he wanted without ever having to work for it.

It was explained to me that Wyatt had no prior knowledge of my arrival. The Hughes' weren't in the market to adopt until a small, filthy child stumbled into the road in front of their car. I understood, and I was just so thankful to know where my next meal was coming from. So, for years, I tried to find common ground with Wyatt. I gave him the space and patience I hoped he deserved. But he preferred boarding schools to his own home, and soon enough he stopped coming back during the holidays too. Wyatt made himself a ghost, only his memory left within these walls. And I stopped giving a fuck.

Blinking back to the present, I balk to find Nixon has moved. A harsh crack reverberates from behind, silhouettes bouncing around the exposed wooden panels of the room. I spin in my seat, gripping the arm rest. Wherever Nixon hit Wyatt, it's not apparent. The two are locked in a stare-off, but it's Wyatt who bravely closes the gap to bump his father's chest.

"You can give her our last name, give her half of the inheritance, parade her around like your perfect angel. But she is not, nor will she ever be, my sister."

And there's the truth.

Fury bleeds through Nixon's features, the strain of the day becoming even more evident. He grabs Wyatt's collar in both fists. Standing nose to nose, Nixon's tone lowers to a threatening level I've never heard before.

"Avery has been more a part of this family for the past ten years than you have. I buried my fucking wife today. It's all of our responsibility to see Avery is safe, and time for you to step up. Don't push me, Wyatt." He shoves his son backwards.

Refuse , I beg inside my head. Keep refusing until Nixon lets me stay.

With a lasting death glare at me, Wyatt leaves, making sure to slam the door harshly. Foreboding settles over me. On top of everything I've lost today, the lifestyle I love has just been snatched away and Wyatt is supposed to be the one keeping me safe . Something tells me, my big brother will do everything in his power to ensure the exact opposite becomes my new reality.