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The leather steering wheel was slick under my palms and raindrops pummeled the roof of my beat-up car like an omen. I should've known better than to seek sanctuary in the lion's den, but there I was, driving through a fucking monsoon towards her—auntie dearest.
Because playing detective in your own family drama is a great idea, Averill.
My grip tightened on the wheel, every mile closer to that penthouse prickling my skin with the ghosts of old wounds.
"Turn around" whispered the rebellious part of me, but it was muffled by a louder voice that demanded answers. The city blurred past, a smear of grays and wet asphalt, as I fought the urge to slam on the brakes.
"Come on, Averill," I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. "You've faced off with lowlifes and scumbags—what's one more battle with the queen of snide remarks?" Still, the thought of stepping into that penthouse made my tattoos itch, the ink like battle scars over my heart.
I pulled up outside the towering building. The doorman eyed my car like it was a cockroach he wanted to squash, but I flipped him a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Here for Madam High-and-Mighty," I announced, not bothering to mask the disdain in my voice. He simply nodded, his judgment radiating off him like cheap cologne.
"Of course, Ms. Winslow," he replied, with the warmth of a shark that smelled blood.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was a silent ascent into hell. My combat boots thudded against the plush carpet as I stepped into the realm of marble and crystal, the air thick with the scent of wealth and hypocrisy.
"Ah, Averill, you've finally decided to grace us with your presence." Aunt Clarissa's voice was like a record scratch in the symphony of luxury. She stood in the doorway, her designer clothes clinging to her slender frame. Her gaze raked over me like I was a stain on her perfect carpet of a life.
"Cut the crap, Clarissa," I shot back and my pulse pounded in my ears. "I'm here for answers, not your twisted version of fucking family bonding."
"Is that any way to talk to the only family you have left?" she tsked and a cruel smirk pulled at her freshly injected lips.
"Family?" The word tasted like ash in my mouth. "Don't play that card. You've never been family, not really."
"Always so dramatic," she sighed and stepped aside to let me in. "Come, let's get this over with."
I stepped into the lioness' lair, each footstep reminding me why I had left, why this world was never mine to begin with. But I'd come too far to turn back. It was time to face the music, even if it was composed by the devil herself.
The penthouse door swung open fully, and there they were—my cousins, lounging like a cluster of mannequins in designer clothes on the Italian leather sofa. They looked up, their eyes as cold and calculating as Aunt Clarissa's diamond collection.
"Look who crawled out of her cave," Tristan smirked so wide it could've swallowed his ego. He was the oldest, a carbon copy of the kind of Wall Street sharks that made the recession look like a pool party.
"Is that a new tattoo, Averill? Or just another cry for attention?" Isla twirled her pearl necklace with manicured fingers that had never known a day of work.
"Both," I let my jacket sleeve ride up to reveal the inked symbols of my tormented past. This was their game – goad and judge – but I wasn't playing today.
A flicker of memory, as sharp as the edge of a knife, sliced through me. I was fifteen again, locked in my room at this very penthouse, the air heavy with the scent of my own misery. The darkness outside mirrored the one inside me, while those same voices sneered through the keyhole, "No wonder your mom..."
"Earth to Averill," Tristan's voice yanked me back to the present. "Enjoying your little trip down memory lane?"
"Blissfully," I deadpanned and clenched my fists to keep the tremors of an old anger at bay. These polished vultures had pecked at the carcass of my self-esteem for years, leaving scars that no tattoo could cover.
"Enough chit-chat," Aunt Clarissa interjected briskly, her gaze flicking between us like she was watching a tennis match she'd rigged. "We have things to discuss."
"Indeed," I agreed, feeling the weight of the newspaper clipping burning a hole through my pocket. They knew something about my mother's death, I could feel it in the tension that strung the room tighter than piano wire.
"Let’s move to the dining room," Aunt Clarissa suggested, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome set to the rhythm of my rising pulse.
I followed, passing by framed photos of a family I barely recognized. Smiles as thin as the veneer of civility that coated this place. The memory of teenaged tears spilled on these same floors, the echo of my sobs drowned out by laughter from the other side of gilded walls.
"Your father wouldn’t approve of those tattoos," Isla muttered as we walked, her voice dripping with disdain.
"Good thing he's not here, then," I kept my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. "He's probably too busy making new friends in prison."
"Always the charmer," Tristan remarked, earning him a scathing look.
At the dining table, I took a seat, feeling like an imposter in a world that had rejected me long ago. I was the crack in their perfect crystal, the smudge on their polished silver.
