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Prologue
Sabrina.
Chelsea, England
Two Years Ago
The Alchemists – Pop-Up Show – LONDON -Tonight Only!
I stare at my phone screen in fascination. Raven would have loved to see them!
“Sabrina, phone down at the table, darling,” my mother cheerfully intrudes my thoughts before they can darken to thoughts of my best friend still locked up in that asylum. I’m sorry – Mental Institution. I almost groan out loud. I’d visited hereveryday while she was in the ICU after she was brutally attacked in the music hall back at Rayne-Moore University. Then one day I woke up to our sorority sisters bursting into our shared room excitedly turning on the news.
Raven had been transferred to Lorne Wood for physically assaulting a nurse after having a “violent fit.” Whatever that meant. If I knew Raven, my very own soul sibling, the one I told all of my secrets to, the one who looked at my very butthole the time I thought I had an anal contusion from, well,anal, and didn’t laugh, then I knew that bitch of a nurse probably earned getting her bloody nose broken and whatever else Raven did to her.
When I asked Axel what happened exactly later, and he told me the nurse had touched Raven’s wrists, the onesstillhealing from being tied behind her back by zip ties, I telepathically said, “Thatta girl,” hoping the wind or the cosmos or however this universe works, sent it to her.
I’ve spoken to her stepbrother, Axel, quite a few times over the last two years and every time heswears, she’s getting better, but they haven’t let her out of that godforsaken cage.
Every time I try to visit, they kicked me out. Or, rather,politelyturned me away and I’ve left with my tail tucked between my legs. I can’t even get past the front gate. I’m not on a ‘next-of-kin’ list, which is ridiculous. But in our world…last names matter.
Axel says he’ll fix that as well every time I bring it up, but so far, no good.
I’ve lost faith in him, if I’m honest.
“Sorry mum, what were you saying?” I darken my screen and put my phone face down on the table to pick up my fork and continue shoveling more eggs into my mouth, eating quickly so I can claim a few tickets before they’re sold out. My eyes darting from my phone back up to my mother, renowned author and large breakfast enthusiast, Matilda Barclay.
“That we’re having dinner with the Prime Minister and his wife this evening. It could be a good move in the right direction for your career. You know we’d love to have you here full-time. She's a barrister, darling.”
I groan inwardly. “You know I accepted the job at Daddy’s firm. I am going back next week and I’m starting there. I already have an entire list of clients waiting for my return, Mum.”
My mother does her best not to frown, swirling her spoon in her tea, but she does sigh. Green eyes like mine flick up to me over her teacup as she blows on it softly. She’s still upset because I became a lawyer and not a doctor. I could say I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, but really, I picked up where my late brother, Charlie, left off.Hewanted to be a lawyer and run Daddy’s firm with him. It was his dream, often sitting in at meetings and whatnot, going with Daddy to work.
He died ten years ago.
He was only sixteen.
The Syndicate Elders granted my parents’ divorce only six months later.
“Darling, I do wish you would have spoken to me about that first. There are so many opportunities here for you and I wish you would have gone over all your options. I miss you. I hardly get to see you now. You accepting that job with your father means I’ll see you less and Derek, your stepfather, would have loved to have you join his team.”
Mother married Derek, her former secondary boyfriend or “high school sweetheart” very soon afterward.
I love Derek. He’s good for andtomy mother.
“I didn’t go into family law for a reason, Mum.”
She swallows her tea and brushes a strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear. Old money blonde, they call it. It would be the same color as mine if I didn’t prefer it platinum and icy. “Because divorce is so fun and chirpy?”
It's a jab but I don’t bite. “Honestly, Mum. It is. Or itcanbe. During my internship last summer, we had a woman who was top-tier petty. She and her wife had a Precious Moments collection, do you remember those? Anyway, she had them appraised and then they held an auction between the two of them. As soon as she heard her wife say a higher number than it was worth, she would bow out. It was delicious.”
“It sounds tedious. And messy.” She holds the Y in contempt while digging into her English breakfast.
I roll my eyes. “Maybe that could be fodder for one of your books.”
She swallows down her bite. “Could be.”
Because that’s my mother - Matilda Barclay. Beloved romance thriller and suspense author. Only one of her books has ever been rated less than four stars.