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Anyone who’s metme knows I am prone to violence, exploit fine things, and have an unending feud with my stepmother.
Our dirty laundry is all over the news, along with her Botoxed face and my immortalForbesstatus.
Unlike what others think, Susan Shaw’s original sin wasn’t sucking my father’s dick or worshipping it for her Chanel wardrobe. It was her audacity of snatching my mother’s place, kicking her out of the house she called home, and eventually driving her to slice her veins open.
Being a gold digger wasn’t enough, so she upgraded herself to wife status. That might have given her some of my father’s billions, but it also presented her with her own custom-made hell.
Me.
It’s said that revenge is a dish best served cold, and I intend to make the blood in that woman’s veins freeze until she wishes for death.
I arrive at the charity event one of her friends is throwing—without invitation—in a flash of paparazzi.
The organizer is flustered when I show him my hefty donation check and he has no choice but to let me in.
I could’ve asked for an invitation beforehand, but that would have killed the element of surprise. Nate says I like doing things the hard way, but that’s only because the easy way is more boring than sleep.
Being dashing, rich, and having a “fuck you” attitude has put me on numerous lists, such as “Daddy I want to fuck.” Not sure if that applies to my parenthood or means I’m daddy material or both. I don’t honor that status or the other ones with a sliver of care.
Fucking is done on my terms, with chosen escorts and only after they sign an NDA that basically sells their soul—or, more accurately, their pussy—to the devil.
Aka me.
I don’t return any woman’s smile, don’t engage in any form of hair-pulling small talk, and I sure as fuck don’t give two shits about societal standards unless it plays in my favor.
When I order a whiskey at the bar, a few girls fall over their tits contemplating whether or not to approach me.
Pathetic.
The fact that they hesitate immediately crosses them off my list with a red Sharpie. Not that I would’ve considered them if they’d actually talked to me, but it would have shown that they at least had courage, a trait I would’ve admired before crushing it and their advances.
Only one woman is worth my time, smiles, and words. Gwen. And the reason she’s an exception is because my blood flows through her veins.
The charity ball is held in an extravagant hall with a faux French socialite atmosphere. The windows are a poor imitation ofLe château de Versailles. The tall, ornate platforms appear to be expensive but share the dullness of a sewer rat from the Middle Ages.
Even the fact that they put a gold-trimmed bar in the middle of the space has a desperate “I’m rich” vibe that can definitely be used to describe Susan and her vain socialite friends.
I stare at my watch.
Three, two, and…one.
“What are you doing here?”
I lift my head as my nemesis stops a few steps in front of me. Once upon a time, Susan was a beautiful woman with sandy blonde hair and an hourglass shape that she used to seduce any dick available. But the beauty disappeared as she grew older and had unfortunate acquaintances with plastic surgeons’ knives.
She’s now a silicone monster with puckered lips that are close to hanging to her—no surprise here—fake tits.
Her eyes are beady, too big for her face, too muddy in their color, like an abandoned house in the slums.
Oh, and to make matters worse, she likes to dress in loud shades of pink, as if her sole purpose is to bleed people’s eye sockets with the view of her twisted version of Barbie. Her dress for the night is a shiny piece that’s paying tribute to the eighties horrible neon pink that should have its own dedicated section in hell.
She taps her toe in an impatient move that makes her look like a petulant child with anger management issues. “I asked you a question, Kingsley.”
I take a sip of my Macallan and pretend the ice is an undiscovered world wonder before I finally slide my attention back to her. “Oh, you were talking to me? Not interested. Try in court next time.”
The flashes of cameras intensify and I don’t have to search for them to know they’re focused on us. The battles Susan and I have in court are infamous, ruthless, and downright barbaric.
