Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
My life was stolen from me the day I went missing at age seven.
Now, twenty years later, I’m home—under strict orders to keep my true identity a secret while playing the dutiful daughter, doing everything that’s asked of me, quietly taking the fall for my half-sister’s mistakes.
At least, that’s what my family think.
For the past two years, I’ve been planning my revenge against the ones who ruined my life and killed my mother, and it’s almost time.
Time to take it all back.
My name. My status. My inheritance.
And my man—the Crown Prince of our small country, the other half of the arranged marriage I was promised when we were children.
I want it all.
And I’ll stop at nothing until I get it.
Even if it means tearing everything apart with my own two hands
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE – HATTIE
I still remember the day I was kidnapped.
To this day, nothing has been as terrifying. It still cripples me sometimes—the fuzzy memories of darkness, of not knowing, of wondering who those people were and where they were taking me.
I remember how I whispered to myself that Daddy would find me because he’d never let anyone take me away. That Mummy would move heaven and earth to find me and bring me home. That if they failed, the Askurg Royal Family would do everything in their power and then some to bring the future crown princess home.
I remember how I sat in the darkness with my eyes covered and limbs bound in nothing but the dress I’d been wearing. How they’d taken my stuffed rabbit so I couldn’t throw it out to leave it as a trail.
How a rough, smoky voice had cackled in my young ear about how much money I was worth.
How I, at the tender age of seven, was taunted about how I would never see my family again.
Sometimes, I can still smell the stale cigarette smoke and brandy that clung to my kidnappers.
And sometimes, I wake up curled into a tight ball, cradling my head in my hands so nobody can hurt me again.
Like now.
My heart pounds in my chest, pumping adrenaline through my body. An impending panic attack darkens my peripheral vision, and I uncurl my head from my arms and choose a spot to focus on.
The clock.
The movement of the hands.
The steady rhythm as they make their way around the face.
I inhale.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Hold the breath.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Exhale.
I repeat this several times, holding each stage of the breath for a count of four. The clock’s hands tick over, helping me keep count, an unknowing ally in my war against my own mind.
I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m at home—as much of a home as this accursed place can be to me.
But they can’t hurt me here. Those people, the ones who took my hand and promised to help me find my parents, who bound my hands, covered my eyes, gagged me, and stole my life from me... They can’t hurt me here.
I unclench my fists and draw in a deep, controlled breath. I let it out in the same slow, steady manner, and force my eyes open. Sunlight edges in through the tiniest gaps in the curtains, and I blink as I adjust to today’s reality.
I’m in my bedroom.
The closest thing I have to ‘home’ here, in this monstrous building filled with its nauseating displays of wealth.
And it makes me sick.
Every inch of this vile mansion, from the bricks in the walls to the gaudy golden chandeliers hanging in every room, the parquet floors and panelled walls, makes me want to throw up.
Just like it has from the moment I stepped foot back into this vile place two years ago.
The fact I wake up and fall asleep here every day is soul-crushing. It’s always the same old bullshit. My father’s hesitance to show too me too much care and attention, my stepmother’s hatred hidden behind her welcoming smile, my half-sister’s nauseating innocent act... Then me, the good, obedient daughter grateful for having been accepted back into this powerful yet dysfunctional family.
As far as my father is concerned.
But to Rosalyn and Jasmine, I’m merely a scapegoat. The one to take the blame when something goes wrong—in other words, when Jasmine fucks up. I’m the one to beat down, to break, to blame, all in the name of reminding me of my place.
This place... this family... it’s nothing but my worst nightmare.
The only good thing going for it is that my stepmother and half-sister feel the same way about me, and I can’t describe how happy it makes me to know that my mere existence pisses them off. That the fact I didn’t die is a perpetual thorn in their side.
That my presence makes them scared.
Sometimes, it’s all that gets me through the day.
I’m fuelled by sugar and spite.