Page 6 of Cruel Deception
My father’s gone—he’d never stoop to hide-and-seek. Still, the hairs on my neck stand up as I check the empty rooms, finding only dust and cobwebs.
Back in the kitchen, the beans have burned, the acrid smell stinging my nose. “Okay, that’s it,” I mutter, my nerves frayed. This place is freaking me out. I snatch the card from the table and dial the number. “I’m ready. Come pick me up,” I say, my voice clipped.
“Yes, ma’am,” comes a polite, distant reply. I don’t trust them. They’re loyal to my father, not me.
I pack fast, shoving clothes and the hidden file into a duffel bag, then drag it to the living room.
Stepping outside, I freeze—my eyes land on the stolen motorcycle, glinting under the moonlight. That guy from the club, Mr. Hot, will come for it eventually.
I can’t risk him finding me here. I wheel the bike to the overgrown backyard, stashing it behind the crumbling shed, where ivy and shadows swallow it whole.
Headlights cut through the dark, and a car pulls up. The driver steps out, and my stomach twists. Nico. My ex-boyfriend. Since when does he work for my father?
Last I heard, he was a pilot in Boston. He saunters toward me, his grin sharp and cruel, like a blade he’s eager to twist.
“Surprised to see me, Charlotte?” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery.
“Load my bag,” I snap, glaring. He works for my father, which means he answers to me, whether he likes it or not.
He laughs, low and ugly. “You serious? I’m not your damn maid. I work for your father, not some flat-chested freak like you.” His eyes rake over me, lingering on my chest. “Heard they carved you up good. Bet you’re more man than woman now.”
The words hit like a punch, my breath catching. I’m wearing a padded bra to hide the scars, but I feel exposed, raw.
I signed a confidentiality agreement with the hospital—how does he know? My father must’ve dug it up, and now Nico’s throwing it in my face. A breach of contract, another betrayal. My fists clench, but I keep my voice cold. “Keep talking, Nico. It’s cute how you think I care.”
He steps closer, his grin widening, venom in every word. “Thank God I dodged that bullet. Couldn’t stomach dating a mutilated mess like you. What’s it like, knowing you’ll never be a real woman?”
I want to claw his eyes out, but I don’t flinch. He didn’t break up with me—I dumped him. I found his phone one night, textswith some woman, nudes swapped like trading cards while he was still calling me his girlfriend.
There were other signs too—late nights he couldn’t explain, the way he’d get cagey when I asked about his “work trips,” the perfume on his jacket that wasn’t mine.
I ended it before he could ruin me, and it’s always eaten at him that I walked away first.
“Get the bag, Nico,” I say, my voice ice. “Or I’ll make sure my father knows how useless you are.”
His smirk falters, and he grabs the duffel, tossing it into the trunk with a muttered curse.
I slide into the backseat, my heart pounding, the stolen file burning a hole in my bag. As the car pulls away, the house fades into the dark, and I wonder what I’m walking into. My father’s world is a snake pit, and I’m about to step right into its jaws.
Nico’s eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror, trying to catch mine, but I stare out the window, jaw tight.
I’m not giving this sleaze the satisfaction of a conversation. The car hums through the city, and I lean back, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge the weight of his gaze. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
When we pull up to my father’s mansion, a chill crawls over my skin, goosebumps prickling despite the warm morning air.
Ten years. A decade since he banished me from this place, and now it looms before me, all sharp angles and gleaming wealth.
It’s nothing like Grandfather’s crumbling house—this is a fortress of power, cold and untouchable.
I’ve had secret video calls with Vincent over the years—grainy, pixelated glimpses of the only person who still felt like home. But I haven’t seen him in person since we were kids. Ten years. And now, all I want is to see my little brother again. To know he’s real.
The sight of this house churns my stomach, stirring memories of my mother. Her laugh, soft and warm, as she braided my hair one morning, telling me stories of far-off places she’d visit someday.
Or the time we baked cookies in the old kitchen, flour dusting her nose as she sneaked me extra chocolate chips. Then she was gone, vanished without a trace, and this house became a ghost of her.
I grab my duffel and step inside, the opulent living room hitting me like a slap.
Marble floors gleam under a massive chandelier, dripping crystals that catch the light like trapped stars. Plush velvet sofas line the walls, flanked by gold-trimmed tables holding vases worth more than Grandfather’s entire house.
