Page 5 of Cruel Deception
Over my dead body.
Chapter 2
CHARLOTTE
“Who the hell are you to waltz back into my life after ten years and tell me to move in with you?”
My voice trembled, tight with fury I’d buried for a decade.
“You left me to rot. You don’t get to show up now and start giving orders like nothing happened.”
My father’s lips curl into a venomous smirk, like he’s savoring my anger. “I know you still sneak around with Vincent. You love that boy, don’t you?” He pauses, letting the words sink like knives. “If you don’t want him hurt, you’ll come home.”
My fury explodes, a wildfire in my chest. “You’re threatening me with your own son? Are you hearing yourself? You’d hurt Vincent—your heir—just to drag me back?”
He leans forward, his eyes glinting with cruel indifference. “You love him. I don’t. He’s just a tool, raised to take my place when I’m gone. You know that, Charlotte. I’m a lot of things, but I don’t lie. So, if you want to keep your little secret chats with your brother and keep him safe, come home. Protect him yourself.”
He pulls a card from his pocket and drops it on the table, the sound sharp in the silence. “Call this number when you’ve packed. The driver will come.”
“I’m not coming,” I spit, my voice hard as steel.
He glances at me, that sickening grin still plastered on his face, unbothered. “I’ll be expecting you.”
His eyes rake over the house—its cracked walls, its sagging ceiling—like it’s a disease he can’t wait to escape. Then he walks out, leaving the air heavier than before.
The door creaks shut, and I unravel. My hands shake, my breath coming in sharp, angry gasps.
Ten years. Ten years without a word, and he has the gall to show up like he owns me?
I slam my fist against the wall, and a sharp pain stabs through my chest, right where the surgery scars hide beneath my shirt.
I freeze, clutching my ribs, the ache a reminder of the mastectomy I never wanted anyone to know about. I sink to the floor, breathing through the pain, and let out a bitter laugh. “Great, Charlotte. Punch a wall and almost kill yourself. Real smooth.”
Still on the floor, my fists clench so tight my nails bite into my palms.
He knows exactly how to gut me. Vincent’s my weakness, my little brother, the only piece of family I’ve got left besides this rotting house.
When my father sent me away at ten, I thought I’d lost him forever. But a year later, with Grandfather’s help, I slipped Vincent a burner phone.
We’ve been talking ever since, careful whispers in the dark, our bond a secret I thought was safe. Now my father’s dangling it over my head. Has he known all along? Has he been listening, his tech goons eavesdropping on every word? The thought makes my skin crawl, a violation I can’t shake.
He’s right about one thing—he doesn’t love Vincent. He’s raised him like a machine, molding him with an iron fist to inherit his empire.
I can’t let my brother suffer for my defiance. And with my wedding to the Moretti’s second son in two months, I won’tbe staying long anyway. But why now? Why does my father suddenly want me under his roof? The question gnaws at me, a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
I drag myself up, the air lighter now that his toxic presence is gone, and head to the kitchen.
The floorboards groan under my boots, and the house feels alive, watchful. I pause mid-step, heart lurching as a faint shuffle echoes from the back room. I hold my breath, straining to hear, but the silence returns, thick and eerie.
Shaking it off, I step into the kitchen. It’s a time capsule of neglect—rusted cabinets, a chipped sink, a stove that barely works.
I grab a can of beans from the shelf and dump it into a dented pot, my hands moving on autopilot.
Another sound—a creak, like footsteps on the stairs. My pulse spikes. I grab a knife from the counter and creep toward the noise, my boots silent on the worn floor.
The hallway is dark, shadows pooling in the corners. “Who’s there?” I call, my voice steady despite the fear clawing my chest.
Nothing. Just the house, playing its haunted tricks.
