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One
Kastle
My cell roars with The Lion King’s haunting chorus.
Be Prepared.
It’s the anthem of Scar, the villainous uncle and back-stabbing brother to Mufasa.
It’s the ringtone my best friend set for my mother.
The song blares through my office. A pounding refrain. Eerie words blurring together.
The melody expands, pushing at the full-length glass windows. Crawling over the carpet. Stabbing the armor that covers my heart.
It scrapes the bruises.
Scratches at the scars.
I stare at the screen that’s lit up. This time is going to be better. She’s going to ask about my day. How my plants are doing. How I’m doing.
This time, it won’t be a request to pull on the monkey suit. To dance and clap on command.
We’ve outgrown this.
I inhale. Fill up my lungs. Set my coffee mug on the desk next to my laptop.
A moment of quiet descends. It’s swift. Sharp. Like a guillotine over a severed neck.
The phone goes dark.
Silence swiftly fills the room until there’s nothing but my own self-loathing.
Nothing but my shaking breaths.
Inhale. Exhale.
My phone lights up and I choke.
Scar gleefully belts out his warning.
He’s got his reasons for wanting to take over the Pride Lands.
He knows who he is.
Whereas I—
Hell, I’m not doing this. Not today.
I slide my palms against my pants. They’re tailored. Expensive. Good for commanding the attention of a boardroom. Crap at resisting moisture. These clothes weren’t made for people who sweat.
The hall outside is dark. The entire floor is dark. My assistant is at home, or out with her friends, or enjoying dinner with her family. The other employees are living their lives.
At least they have one.
I get up with the cell phone.
It’s four steps to the window.
To the expansive city lights that unfurl before me, like the world got turned upside down and now the stars are dangling from the tops of towering buildings. I want the view to suck me in. Want to blur with the stars.
But there’s Scar in my ear telling me be prepared.
I answer the call. “Mom.”
“Kastle.” Her tone bristles with annoyance.
I try to shake off the unsteadiness.
She’s my mother.
I owe her everything.
Yeah, it wasn’t perfect growing up. But I had a roof over my head. Food on the table. Every amenity a kid could want. It was enough. Could have been worse.
I tell myself that over and over.
Could have been worse.
At the tender age of four, I got plucked out of an orphanage in China and dumped into the lap of luxury. Moving, jumping, and breathing when my parents gave the cue came with the territory. I was a puppet on strings, but at least they were luxurious strings. Expensive.
Could have been worse.
Yeah. It could have.
I suck in a deep breath. “Everything good?”
It’s sad that I don’t know the answer to that. My mother’s wellbeing shouldn’t be a mystery to me.
“Yes. You?”
“Fine.” It’s not a lie. I’m okay with my origins. I’m okay being that famous adopted kid. I’m living just fine like this. I don’t need concern. Pity. Understanding.
Not that Mom is offering any.
