Chapter One 14

Chapter One

Arryn

I nurse my drink while staring at the woman whose sun kissed skin and expertly bleached blond hair reminds me so much of my brother. Odd how she looks more like his sibling than I do. If they were married today, with a passel of Adonic crotch goblins sporting the same beach-born looks and living the perfect life Stark had planned, I have no doubt they’d be a viral social media sensation.

But she didn’t marry my brother. Here she is, seven marriages and six different countries later, living her life. She’s never even been investigated; not by a single law enforcement agency. I allow a fraction of a smile to touch my lips as she stares at a silver-haired gentleman. One hundred percent of her attention is focused on him. His outfit and watch are understated, but his posture and the two hundred dollars a glass scotch he’s drinking signify that he’s been smart enough to steward his earnings into multigenerational wealth.

Will this be the man to stop her? Or will he fall prey to her charm, permitting her to ensnare him in her wickedly sexy web of deception? Will he allow her to inject her poison into his heart and his home? No one gets into this club without scads of their own money, not even the women brought in to entertain. It’s a brilliant setup. A fail-safe in case one of their clientele loses all reason and decides they’re in love with someone they’ve met. Should a pregnancy—in most cases, an impromptu wedding without a prenup—occur, there is less liability for the club knowing all patrons have a minimum net worth.

I sip my considerably-less-than-two-hundred-dollar beverage right out in the open, knowing Vivienne won’t recognize me. I’m nothing like the chubby, soft, painfully shy boy I was when she knew me. Just like I’m no longer anything like my brother. My life has been driven by one all-consuming goal: to gut the cunt who killed my brother, so slowly that she can no longer register the passage of time. To destroy her in every way possible, so that even if she were to seek the solace of death, she would have no means to obtain that sweet, eternal relief.

I’ve already set everything up. By this time next week, Vivienne Wallace will be destitute, physically unrecognizable, and locked away from the world. Every choice will be taken away from her, right down to what puréed foods get poured down her ruined throat. The bitch won’t even be able to hold a glass. She won’t be able to speak, to itch her ass, to choose what position her mangled body lies in .

She won’t realize, until too late, that the most important parts of her life have been ripped from her clawed grasp. But I’ll be there to see her face when she does. That moment won’t bring back my brother, but it will grant me the infinitesimally tiny measure of peace I’ll need to live the rest of my life for myself. Twenty-four years ago, my brother’s murder was ruled a suicide. He’d recently lost his job, and his girlfriend. The woman he professed to be the love of his life was moving to Australia to pursue a marine biology degree. She swore she’d stay faithful to him, but she didn’t want him to go with her. Stark took it hard, but understood, with a maturity far beyond his years, that interfering with her dreams wouldn’t benefit either of them.

She said she’d be out on the boats. She insisted it would be best for him to stay home and finish his kinesiology degree. She rambled on about how the distance and romantic, old-fashioned letters would only make them stronger as a couple.

I hated Vivienne Wallace. She was an entitled, uppity rich girl who couldn’t boil water if Gordon Ramsey himself filled the pot and turned on the stove for her. She was a haughty, snotty, bitch on wheels, but she wasn’t dumb. She was a stellar student, and when it came to Stark, my twin, she displayed a softness with him that not many were privy to .

As long as she was good to him, I could deal with the level of rank bitch she reserved for the rest of the world. I wasn’t in any place to judge. I’m not exactly the extroverted, people-loving friendly type either.

When Stark wasn’t in his bed one Sunday morning, I didn’t think anything of it. He’d been to a concert the night before with our friends. I hadn’t bothered buying a ticket. I had better things to do on Sunday mornings than nurse a hangover. Just because Stark and I are twins doesn’t mean we enjoyed all the same things. Stark was, by far, the more personable of the two of us, and he loved late nights with our friends. He loved playing sports. He was handsome, and witty, and could charm the habit off a nun. He wasn’t anything like me. Stark was a golden god. Our mother may have been a rabid Game of Thrones fan, as evidenced by our names, but I should have been named Golem. I preferred spending my time in front of a screen, alone, working on projects by myself. Sure, I went out with my brother and indulged occasionally, but I didn’t need to be the center of a crowd the way he did.

And I sure as fuck didn’t need the deadweight of a relationship tied around my neck when I was working to get out of the trailer park we lived in. Especially not one as heavy as Stark’s .

I had no idea how he planned on keeping a girl like Vivienne living in the same style she was raised in, but that wasn’t my problem. It was his. And if he thought his summer job on a highway construction crew was the ticket, well, more power to him.

Stark was generally a happy guy. He worked, played, and loved hard. He was planning on a ticket out via sports scholarship, and he got one. Who was I to judge his plans? He may have grinned like a lazy fuck, but he didn’t live that way. He managed to accomplish all his goals seemingly without effort. And I was happy for him. Truly. I loved my brother. He was my best friend. The only person who well and truly knew me.

He had been content to wait for her. If he thought Vivienne was the one, who was I to say otherwise?