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SUTTON

Dawn breaks over Palm Beach like a cracked egg. All golden yolk and promises of another perfect day in paradise.

Except I know better than to trust perfect things.

Perfect things are just pretty distractions, designed to make you forget that there are always, always consequences.

I clutch two tall venti Starbucks cups as I make my way up to the penthouse. Alone this time, as per Sydney’s request.

I miss coffee all the time, but never more so than when my nerves are at their peak and I need to relieve some tension.

Right now, I’m just a raw wound, exposed and vulnerable, waiting for the pain that, in my experience, is never too far away.

The penthouse is quiet when I enter. Expectation hangs heavy in the air like storm clouds.

I find Sydney in the master suite, sitting on a chaise that she’s pushed up against the window. She stares out at the ocean waves, her blue eyes equally watery and far away.

“If you’re looking for answers, you’re not going to find them out there,” I tell her.

She startles upright, blinking back tears.

My stomach clenches as I hand her the coffee. “Iced mochaccino with a double shot of espresso.”

“Bless you,” Sydney sighs with a grateful nod. But she just sniffs the drink without actually taking a sip. “You wanna sit down?”

“I’d rather stand.”

The corners of her mouth twist downwards. “Please, Sut.”

Sighing, I join her on the chaise. It’s impossible, even under the circumstances, not to enjoy the view. The sunlight hits the water at an angle, spraying rainbows up across the horizon. Bright turquoise, russet red, tangerine orange.

I could get lost in daydreaming here all day long. That’d be nice, because it would help me pretend that my sister isn’t about to tell me something that will break my heart, make me want to rip my hair out, or both at the same time.

We sit like that for a few minutes, stewing in the silence, enjoying a few moments of peace before the lightning strikes.

“Tell me,” I say at last.

She meets my gaze. “I’ve been talking to Drew.”

Betrayal washes over me, hot and cold at the same time. Is this what Oleg felt when he found out I’d been in contact with Drew?

Because I finally understand why he reacted the way he did.

My caffeine-free cup is in danger of exploding in my hand. I set it down at my feet, doing my level best to breathe and not erupt like Pompeii.

“Let me get this straight: You’ve been texting my psychopath ex-boyfriend who’s determined to blow up my life, and yours by association?” I ask, accusation tainting my tone despite my best efforts to play it cool.

There are tears standing sentinel in her blue eyes. “I’m sorry?—”

“I don’t want apologies, Sydney!” I cry. “I want explanations!”

“He always kept in touch with me. But the text messages amped up after Paul was… killed,” she says. “He’s scared, Sut. He’s on the run and he’s desperate and trapped. All his friends have either died on him or ghosted him.”

I can’t help but snort. “The Martineks screwed him over. Serves the bastard right.”

Sydney blinks and two fat tears roll down her cheeks. “I might have agreed with you, Sutton. The problem is, he’s determined that if he should go down, we’re going to go down with him.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He wants certain… assurances from you,” she gulps. “He wants you to convince Oleg to grant him immunity, money, and freedom.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” I scoff.

“Because—” Sydney’s voice trembles ominously. “—otherwise, he’s going to release all the ammunition he has on us. On both of us.”

I thought my blood was cold before.

I was wrong.

Now, it’s ice in my veins, ice in my fingertips, ice coating every inch of me from head to toe.

“Syd…” I croak. “What does that mean?”

“Tapes, pictures, voice recordings, and text messages.” Sydney shivers. “Of my most intimate moments with Paul. And?—”

My entire body prickles with what I know is coming.

“—your most intimate moments with him.”

“No,” I whisper. “He’s bluffing. He doesn’t have shit.”

Sydney shakes her head. “He’s not bluffing, Sut. He’s been sending me copies of everything he has on us. Videos of Paul and me in the bedroom. The way he… used me. The roles I was forced to play to satisfy his fantasies. Some of it is horrible and violent to watch—and all of it is demeaning and graphic.”

She pauses, her voice thick with regret, her eyes red and puffy. She wrings her hands together as though she’s trying to make penance. “He’s sent me the tapes he made of the two of you as well. There are… several.”

I get to my feet, anger and horror coursing through me. “I can’t believe he would stoop so low.”

“He’ll make good on this threat, Sutton,” Sydney warns. “He will blow up your life if he has to. Let’s face it: If he releases those tapes, there’s no way Oleg can marry you, given the circles he travels in. You’ll be just another social climber, a grubby little skank who’s punching above her weight.”

I leap to my feet and start pacing, my head spinning as I try to figure out how best to approach this latest bit of blackmail, courtesy of my own personal demon from hell.

Curiously, I’m not feeling any real fear.

What I’m feeling is anger.

Red-hot and molten, twisting through every pore in my body, reminding me that even wannabe princesses can be made of steel.

You just have to piss them off sufficiently.

“Give me your phone,” I snarl, turning on Sydney. “I want to see what he’s told you.”

She passes it over. It’s open to her personal thread with Drew, filled with dozens of messages over the course of the last few days.

The last exchange took place mere hours before Sydney had insisted we see that dodgy studio apartment..

DREW: If you don’t do as I ask, I will destroy your sister and everything she holds dear. Then Oleg Pavlov, his Bratva, and the whole of Palm Beach will see the two of you for what you really are. Trash. Whores. Poison in the water.

I hand Sydney back her phone in disgust.

“What did I ever see in that bastard?” I mutter to myself, turning back to the windows.

“I don’t want you to lose what you’ve built with Oleg, Sutton. Isn’t there some way you can convince him to just… let Drew go?”

I spin around, amazed at her naiveté. “Are you serious?”

She flinches back. “Sutton… he means business.”

“Yeah? Well, so do I,” I spit. “Even if we meet his demands and give him what he wants, he’ll never go away, Sydney. He will hold his so-called ‘ammunition’ over our heads for as long as there is breath left in his body.”

Sydney looks down, her lip trembling precariously.

“No,” I continue, “meeting his demands won’t work. The only way to rid ourselves of him is to fight back.” Slowly, a plan starts unfolding in my head. A map to salvation. “And I think I know how.”

Sydney swallows. “Sutton… are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

I nod, determination cementing itself in the set of my jaw. The thing is, my plan requires convincing a certain stubborn Bratva beast to let me do two essential things.

One—lay the trap.

And two—play the bait.

“Yes, I am,” I tell Sydney as my spine hardens. “This princess is done running from monsters. It’s time for me to become one.”