Page 1 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

One

The Roof

I ’m a captive princess in the highest tower of a castle in the sky.

At least, that’s what it feels like. That’s what it always feels like. But today isn’t just another day of confinement. Today is a special kind of torture.

“Turn just a bit, darling,” Adam, the skinny new photographer, says in a pretentious accent that I’m certain is entirely fake.

I comply, and the motion makes the rhinestones on this frothy pink monstrosity of a ballgown catch the late afternoon light, setting them to sparkle like the tears I’m not allowed to shed.

“Lovely, lovely,” Adam murmurs, apparently oblivious to the fact that I’ve taken two steps back in a desperate attempt to put distance between myself and the edge of the rooftop observation deck.

For the briefest of moments, I wish I really were Rapunzel. But with my waist-length blonde locks twisted into an updo and held in place by ivory combs and a helmet of hairspray, I don’t have enough hair to get me down even one level, much less forty-three stories to the ground.

Not that it would matter if I did. I could never go through with it. Already, panic threatens to claw at my throat. Already, the world beyond the rooftop reaches for me with invisible hands, waiting to drag me down, down, dow?—

“Sasha!”

My father’s voice slices through my thoughts, snapping me back to reality.

I take five slow, deep breaths, telling myself that it’s fine.

That despite my unsteadiness and the pangs of fear, I made the right decision not to take my meds this morning—and to flush them down the toilet in case Father sends someone up to my room to check my supply.

The right decision , I tell myself again, with a glance toward Ruby Ryder, my best friend and personal assistant.

We’ve been joined at the hip since we were twelve.

That’s when she came to live with her grandmother, our housekeeper.

Today, her job is ostensibly to hold makeup brushes and extra hairpins.

In reality, she’s here to silently bolster me if I start to crumble under the weight of my new determination to wean myself off the damn pills Father and his cabal of doctors have forced down my throat since I was seven.

Behind the photographer, Ruby grimaces as she holds up two fingers—a signal that my father is coming.

Ice floods my veins. I turn to see him stalking toward me, weaving through the forest of light stands and electrical cords.

His polished Italian shoes click against the roof tiles like a countdown.

His face remains neutral—it always does when investors or clients are nearby—but I recognize the familiar fury blazing in his eyes and cringe back the moment he arrives at my side.

“Do you have any idea how expensive this shoot is?” His voice is low, for my ears only.

“How important this launch is? Dammit, girl. Everything I do for you—making you the face of this entire campaign, every privilege you live under, the time and money I spend getting you the proper medications—and you can’t be bothered to follow directions? ”

I want to tell him I’ve been standing here for hours. That I’ve barely eaten, much less had water. That the stupid dress weighs a ton, but I can’t sit down because, god forbid, it wrinkles.

I’ve been the face of Reed Cosmetics since I was fourteen, my carefully cultivated image of fragile beauty serving as a cornerstone of my father’s brand. A perfect princess in her stunning tower.

I hate it.

I want to scream that I never asked for this. That I hate this role I’m forced to play. That I think the newest Dreams campaign is tacky and stupid.

I want to rage that he knows the roof terrifies me, even with all the meds he forces down my throat.

That he promised we’d shoot in our home’s elegant ballroom.

That instead of the warm protection of four walls and familiar marble pillars, he’s positioned me three feet from a barely secure edge beyond which lies forty-three floors worth of terrifyingly empty space stretching in all directions.

But I don’t say any of that. Not to Victor Reed, the man who fathered me. The man who repeatedly says he loves me. The man who just as frequently torments me. To him, I can only whisper, “Sorry, Daddy.”

He sighs, checking his Patek Philippe Grandmaster watch with theatrical disappointment.

“You know damn well we need these shots for the launch. The board is already questioning the budget.” He runs a hand through his perfectly styled silver-gray hair.

“Fools, all of them. But they’ll change their minds when they see our market share. ”

He points a long finger at my face, so close I can see the manicured nail. “Mark my words, child. The fairy tale aesthetic is a genius maneuver on my part. Maybe they can’t see it now, but this campaign is gold. It’s going to push us ahead of Lucent.”

Lucent.

Just the name of the Grimm family’s cosmetics line makes my skin prickle. Sophisticated. Elegant. Dripping with class. Everything our campaign is not.

The irony isn’t lost on me—how the vilest family in Manhattan creates the most beautiful products. They lie and cheat and steal to get what they want.

And they kill.

I fight the urge to hug myself as I think of my mother, now nearly twenty years in her grave.

I was seven when my father told me Elias Grimm, the family’s monster of a patriarch, was the one I’d seen murder her.

Worse, he’d gotten away with it. “That family has the police in their pocket,” Father had said.

I was too young then to understand what that meant. I only knew the Grimm family had taken my mother from me—that because of them, I’d been left alone with my father, a monster of a different kind.

And I swore that someday—somehow—I would get revenge on Elias Grimm and his entire clan.

If this Dreams campaign had even the slightest chance of kicking Lucent’s marketing ass, I’d be all for it. But instead, we’re pushing something tasteless and stale—like poisoned apples wrapped in gold leaf.

I say none of this out loud. Instead, I meet my father’s eyes. “We’ll get their market share, Father.” I say it because that’s what he wants to hear. And I’ll pay the price if I try to tell him anything else.

He grunts, his expression thunderous. My insides tighten, only to loosen when Adam calls out, holding up his camera and gesturing for me to return to his side.

I start to move, but my father’s hand closes around my upper arm. “We need to see that smile of yours, Sasha. That sparkle. This is about making dreams come true.”

I lift my face to his and look deep into those emerald green eyes, so like my own. “I wouldn’t know about dreams coming true,” I say—but only in my head. I gave up on dreams long ago. Now, I have only nightmares. Except for that one lingering dream of escape.

That’s a nightmare, too though, because I know it will never happen.

What I say aloud is, “Yes, Daddy.”

His mouth curves into a saccharine smile as he nods toward the onlookers.

“Dreams,” he repeats, his voice booming as he sweeps his arm toward the banner hanging near the catering table.

It bears the Reed Cosmetics logo and the campaign slogan: Make your dreams come true.

“And aren’t dreams the reason we’re here? ”

I want to run, but I know my role in this twisted fairy tale. I rise on tiptoes, then kiss his cheek as the reporters’ cameras flash. When I settle back on solid ground, I aim a simpering smile at the onlookers, then hurry toward Adam so we can start the whole damn performance all over again.

I hit my mark and strike the next pose, following Adam’s direction. For a few minutes, I manage to lose myself in the fantasy that I’m Rapunzel, trapped in a high tower, waiting for my prince.

But too soon, the fantasy dissolves like mist. After all, I know better than to believe in fairy tales. I’m just a girl playing dress-up, and any rescuing will have to be done by me.

Too bad I don’t have a clue how to make that happen.

“A bit to your right,” Adam says, and I force my hesitant feet to move closer to the waist-high railing that separates the roof from the void.

My insides go ice-cold as I move, and I wish desperately that I’d taken the damn meds.

But I tell myself I’m safe—that I won’t go over.

There’s a barrier now, unlike that horrible day when my mother died.

A barrier and concrete firm under my feet. Solid. Sturdy. Safe.

I won’t go over. I won’t fall. I won’t get lost in the vast oblivion.

I gulp air, realizing I’ve forgotten to breathe. I stamp my foot, the heel making a sharp sound against the roof. Solid. All solid.

Except it’s not.

It’s all just atoms. The same atoms that make up the air, and air won’t keep me safe. Air is just something to get lost in. To fall through.

“Tilt your chin up and smile.” I hear the edge in my father’s voice as he approaches from behind me. “Remember, you’re selling fairy tales.”

I want to snap that I’m not. I’m selling makeup by being the frothy, pink, fake image of sanitized tales. Nothing like the stories the Grimm family used to publish centuries ago—dark and dangerous and cautionary.

But since I’d have to be out of my mind to say that aloud, I force my lips into yet another practiced smile. Anything to finish this shoot. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can get back inside.

The thought calms me even as fresh terror rises—the promise of being safe inside clashing with the stark reality that I’m outside, with Central Park spreading below me like a verdant carpet.

In this moment, I’m reminded of all the open space around me, and vertigo hits with a vengeance.

My head swims, my stomach plummets, and I’m suddenly convinced I might float away untethered, tumbling down, down, down to shatter into a million pieces.

It would be a relief. An escape.

It would be over.

No.

I slow my breathing, settle back on my mark, and force my fear-stiffened body to strike the pose—even as I wish I hadn’t tossed the damn meds.

So that I can cope, I imagine I’m painting this scene rather than living it. Creating depth and perspective on a flat canvas. Or coding sections of Elysium, my private virtual world where everything is under my control, and girls who tumble off buildings fly instead of fall.

“Take three steps closer to the edge,” Adam calls. “I want the skyline rising behind you.”

I glance in that direction. Three steps would put me right there , where even a deep breath could shift my balance and send me hurtling over.

The possibility locks me in place. I can’t move. I’m frozen. Terrified. Ashamed.

Then my father is beside me. “Quit being such a child,” he growls, pressing his hand to my waist and moving me closer to the void.

No, no. Please, please no.

I’m going to be sick. Surely, they don’t want to photograph me like this.

I know he feels me trembling. I know he’s using this moment.

Using my fear.

But all he says is, “So lovely. The light hits your face perfectly here.”

A wave of nausea crests over me and I spin toward him. “Father, I?—”

“Do not embarrass me, Sasha.” His voice is low. Cold. Accusing.

I look down at my shoes, hating this reminder that I need him. That I’m not strong enough for the world outside.

I force myself to look up, expecting to meet my father’s stern, commanding eyes. Instead, I see the deep lines of his frown as he stares across the roof. I turn, following his line of sight.

That’s when I see him .

Liam Grimm.

The devil’s spawn.