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)
And the desire for revenge.
If you cut me open, I’m sure I’d bleed little balls of pure vengeance instead of blood. I’m made of hatred, of a low simmering anger that bubbles permanently just beneath the surface of my skin, pleading to be let free.
But it’s too soon.
Not yet.
Just… a little longer.
I cannot give in to my emotions, to my deepest desires. To do so would be throwing away everything I’ve worked for over the last few years. I haven’t put myself through hell since I returned to my home country just to ruin all my plans in one moment of weakness.
These plans... the carefully laid stepping stones... the bombs tucked beneath the bushes...
No, no.
I must light the fuse for it all at the right time.
For myself.
For my mother.
For the life that was stolen from me.
For the life that belongs to me, the one I will reclaim bit by bit, even if it means clawing it back on my knees in the dirt.
I will burn this family to ashes while I do it. I will tear apart every brick of this mansion, dismantle every department of the family business, lay bare every dirty secret hiding beneath the floorboards.
And I’ll do it with a smile.
It’s no less than the bastards deserve.
I sigh and get out of bed, heading towards the window. I pull open the curtains and push open the top window, letting the sound of early morning birdsong filter into my bedroom and sing away some of this morning’s bitterness.
Just a little, mind you.
I need a good chunk of it to get me through breakfast, especially after last night’s endless nightmares. Bitterness helps with the fantasy of my sister choking on her toast—the only way I can get through any mealtime in this godforsaken family. The longer I’m here, forced to play the cruel, jealous big sister to Jasmine’s innocent façade, to be her scapegoat, the thinner the rope holding onto my patience seems to grow.
I can feel it now. It’s barely even a rope anymore. All that’s left is a frayed, worn thread hanging on for dear life.
If that isn’t a metaphor for my life in general, I don’t know what is.
It really isn’t a lie when I say I survive on spite. It’s the only way I’ve been able to put up with the absolute shit my stepmother and half-sister have put me through over the last two years. There are only so many times one can grit their teeth and bear abuse before even a feather duster begins to look like a viable murder weapon.
But the time is coming.
It’s close.
I am so, so close to the moment I can rip the Sinclair family façade to shreds with my own two hands.
I take a deep breath and leave the birds to their concert outside. Some of us must earn a living around here, so I busy myself by going through my morning routine. A fifteen-minute yoga session to wake up my muscles and work out any sleep-induced kinks, a hot shower where I dream of revenge and freshly baked pastries, and I finish off by turning myself from a sluggish, wet mess into a respectable member of adult society.
By the time I make my way downstairs, my stomach is already churning. The sound of my stepmother and half-sister’s voices titter out from the kitchen, and I brace myself before I get any closer.
Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.
It’s the only way to describe the way they sound to me. Nails on a chalkboard, needles in my eyes, daggers piercing my skin…
Pick your poison.
“A little over a month?” Jasmine, my half-sister, says somewhat forlornly. “Mum…”
I pause outside the door, hovering to the side of the doorframe, just out of their view. What’s the little princess whinging about today? A new necklace not arriving on time? A pair of shoes being out of stock?
My stepmother, Rosalyn, reaches across the table and lays her hand on top of Jasmine’s. “Patience, darling. We’ve always known the engagement would be announced on Prince Finley’s thirtieth birthday. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“But Harriet—”
“Knows better than to use the Sinclair name. She’s still going by Hannah Porter, as she promised she would. Besides, she has no standing in Askurg. Nobody would believe her if she claimed to be the long-lost daughter.”
Which is exactly why I haven’t told anyone.
Yet.
There’s one person who’ll believe me… Or at least care enough to not dismiss me. Someone who’ll hopefully see the resemblance between me and her oldest friend and demand an investigation into my claims.
Reaching her is the problem.
Especially since these rotten, lying motherfuckers won’t let me go anywhere near the Royal Palace, lest my existence destroy their carefully laid plans.
After all, I can see how the discovery of the legitimate eldest daughter of the Sinclairs would ruin Jasmine’s chances of becoming Crown Princess.