“Your future husband.” He settles into my desk chair, turning it so he’s facing me. He’s getting older. There’s plenty of gray at his temples and lines fanning from his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but he’s still handsome. Dignified. He lures everyone in with his charm, but I know the truth.
Deep down, he’s cruel. Cold. Hard on my brothers, especially the baby of the family, Crew. When I was young, our father ignored me. As I got older, he treated me with indifference.
Until I became rebellious. That last year in high school consisted of me testing my limits on a regular basis, taunting the devil, so to speak. I eventually broke him, and felt his wrath.
More times than I care to admit.
He’s currently assessing me with those cold blue eyes we all inherited. The Lancaster gaze, my mother calls it. She has brown eyes, which are genetically dominant, but not when it comes to the Lancasters.
Wait a minute. Did he actually say—
“My future husband?” I squeak.
Irritation flits across his features. “Your tone, Charlotte. Please. And yes, you’re engaged to be married.”
I sit up, suddenly struggling to breathe. I’ve been very comfortable in my existence, despite how boring it truly is. I don’t cause my family any trouble—not anymore.
Once upon a time, I did though. And that’s the reason I’m being kept in a cage.
Now I leave the troublemaking up to my brothers and cousins, who create enough havoc to last twenty lifetimes. I stay at home most nights, reading or watching movies—old ones usually. At one point, I read a lot of books on witchcraft and even considered becoming a witch who sought revenge for others. Doja could be my familiar and I would go around casting spells on unsuspecting men who did their women wrong.
This still sounds like a good idea, if I’m ever out amongst the living once again. It’s been a year since I came home from Paris, hurt and humiliated. I went there to study architecture at one of the most prestigious universities in the world and learn from the experts. My father was dismissive, believing I went to France for an extended shopping excursion, though I proved him wrong with that idea.
I’m not my mother.
No, instead I fell under the spell of my history of architecture instructor. A charming Irish man with dark eyes and hair, who was older and worldly. I had the most obvious crush on him—all of us did. But I was the one he kissed in the empty classroom. That kiss turned into a whirlwind affair that lasted almost the entire semester.
Until his girlfriend showed up for a surprise visit—during class. She burst into the room and ran up to him, smothering him in kisses. Leaving me completely devastated.
Ruined.
Like the hurt, immature girl I was, I promptly dropped out of the university and came home, proving my father right. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything.
I proved him right.
The pain Seamus put me through has mostly faded but sometimes it returns, like a dull, throbbing ache deep in my chest. Reminding me I still have a heart.
And that it’s still wounded.
It’s an angry pain though. One that makes me clench my fists and wish I could punch something.Hewas my rebellion, and for those three blissful monthly, we had a thrilling, passionate affair.
Until he broke my heart when I found out I was the mistress.
The asshole.
The sadness is mostly gone, as is the hurt. The revenge though? It still lives inside of me, like a tiny little flame, flickering and sputtering but never completely out. I seek it against one specific man, though I have no idea how to find him. I’ve searched social media, the staff pages at the university, and have come up mostly empty. Seamus McTiernan doesn’t have much of a social imprint.
“Charlotte!” My father’s booming voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”
I sit up straighter, stuffing the irritation down. “Yes, I did.” I clear my throat. “Who exactly am I marrying?”
Father turns to face me, his expression impassive. As if he’s talking about something as mundane as the weather, when he’s really about to tell me the name of the man who will change my life forever.
“Perry Constantine.”
I frown, the name on repeat in my mind.
Perry Constantine.