Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Something I don’t believe I’m intrinsically capable of.
Perhaps that handicap—my inability to feel anything more than people’s bodies—is the reason sex is a terrible ordeal now.
Nonetheless, I’d like to participate in the fun inside to wind down and relieve the tension that’s still bunching in my shoulders. Maybe forget about a certain league’s prince whose skin I’m itching to worm myself beneath.
Toy with his insides a little.
Provoke him a little.
But I can’t do that—neither go inside nor forget about the prince. Again, thanks to people who shouldn’t be here.
Five of them, to be exact. Sharp suits, polished shoes, grim expressions as if they’re posing for a eulogy. My vote’s on Dad’s.
With their starched collars and funeral posture, they just don’t belong here. They’re too clean, too pressed, too Osborn for a place that reeks of spilled whiskey and exhaust fumes.
The club’s parking lot looks like it’s been through a few wars and lost every one. Cracked pavement, gum fossils, and beer bottles kicked into puddles that smell like something died underneath. The light above the door flickers like it’s on life support, washing everything in a depressing buzzing yellow that makes their suits look cheap.
In their midst stands a brown woman who’s wearing the sharpest suit, a tight ponytail, and stiletto heels.
“I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself the last time. My name is Lyra, and I’m the Osborn family’s legal representative.”
“Does a legal representative need so many bodyguards?” I push off my bike, then stalk toward her. She remains still, but her lips purse a little when I stop a few breaths away from her. “Or are you perhaps scared of little old me?”
“These gentlemen were sent by your father to ensure your safety, Mr. Osborn.”
I laugh, and it’s far from humorous. In fact, it’s so mocking, a sheen of discomfort befalls the group.
“Hilarious,” I say in a deadpan voice. “Don’t you think this entire situation is categorically hilarious, Lyra?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the correlation.”
“No? Funny, because the man who fathered me couldn’t have cared less about my existence my whole life. Now that he’s lost his male heirs, I’m some sort of a messiah? I find that extremely entertaining. Don’t you?”
She clears her throat. “Please consider this very carefully, Mr. Osborn. The family is providing you with generous incentives. Your mother will have her own villa in Graystone Ridge, and you’ll have a penthouse, as well as a substantial number of shares in Osborn Corporation and its subsidiaries. Naturally, your student debts will be paid off, and all of your mother’s debts will also be taken care of.”
“I’m afraid that’s not enough for me to sell my soul to the devil.” I push past the men. “Send Dad my condolences for the pending death of his legacy.”
“You can’t run away from who you are forever, Mr. Osborn.” Her voice echoes behind me.
“Watch me,” I say without looking over my shoulder.
“I regret to inform you that we might have to resort to drastic measures in the future.”
I don’t reply. They don’t deserve my words.
They can’t hurt me now that I’m their only option for survival. They can’t hurt my mom either, because that’ll be a sure as hell way to make me go completely berserk on their miserable lives.
Dad lacks any form of a fatherly bone in his body, but he’s not an idiot. Besides, he’s a businessman. He’ll keep trying to find the best solution to recruit me to his side. Whether it takes a year or ten or twenty, he’ll keep trying.
And I’ll keep crushing his hopes every time. Just like he crushed mine every time I waited for him and he never showed up.
It’ll be my sweet revenge against the man who has only ever been a problem in mine and Mom’s lives.
The moment I step into the club, it erupts—cheers tangled with alcohol and slurred words. Eager hands hit my back, sweaty bodies press in, everyone trying to get a piece of me.
I pull on my public smile like a second skin, raising my glass, returning praise with the usual lines: “It was a team effort,” or “Give it up for my guys, Richardson and O’Connor.”
My attempts at modesty don’t really work. The guys carry me and toss me in the air, making the whole club chant, “Captain! Captain! Captain!”
It’s…inconvenient, to say the least.
But I put up with it. They killed themselves for this game, and winning against the Vipers is a championship in and of itself. We have dust compared to their funding, equipment, and fancy coaches.
The only reason we won was due to pure determination.
And well, I did manage to cripple their wild card left wing, Armstrong.
Not that I didn’t try during last year’s games or the ones before that, but he’s always been slippery and like a chameleon who changes personalities in a fraction of a second.