When my parents’ screaming no longer echoes down the hall, I confirm the funds hit my account with a glance, exit out of the browser, maximize my secondary browser with my college work already loaded, and pull my headphones over my ears. My father slams the door to his study. A few seconds later, my phone lights up and vibrates beside my keyboard. As the lock on my door rattles, I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out my over-the-counter medicines before standing and grabbing my prescription off my bookcase.
My mother scoffs from the doorway.
“What’s the point of hiding your medicine? It’s not like your brother can wander through the house, and even if he could, he wouldn’t dare set foot in your room,” she says.
I bite my tongue and systematically take out one pill from each bottle as she watches.
It’s her fault my eight-year-old brother tiptoes around like a ghost in his own home. Anger writhes in my veins, but fear keeps me silent.
My stomach sours as she steps into my room and fills it with her cloying perfume, but I ignore the fear skittering down my spine and pivot to show her the cluster of pills on my palm.
She nods. I pop them into my mouth, take a swig of water, and swallow before showing her my empty tongue.
“Give me the bottle,” she demands with an impatient flick of her wrist toward the bookshelf.
I place my water back onto my desk and pass the prescription to her. She pops it open and sneers before closing and tossing it back at me.
“Are you turning work in late? Didn’t you graduate last week?”
I follow her glare to my computer screen and swallow my apprehension before shaking my head.
“I started college courses last semester,” I partially lie.
She doesn’t need to know I forged her and my father’s approval for college classes several years ago. Graduating from high school on time is a farce, too, since I finished all my classes long ago, but delaying my diploma is probably the only reason I’m still under their roof.
I can’t leave. Not yet. Not when Tristan is still so young and vulnerable.
“What major?” she asks as she leans down and squints at my screen.
“Business administration,” I respond.
It’s another half lie. I earned my associate degree in business administration early last year, but only because it looks good on a résumé. My passion lies in technology, and even though what they teach in college is insultingly basic compared to what I’ve learned on my own, having the official paperwork under my name will further my plan for freedom. I’m only a few credits away from my bachelor’s degree in computer science.
My mother huffs and turns toward the door.
“Fine, but you’d better not let your classes interfere with real life. We’re going to have a busy summer.”
Her threat rings through my ears as she slams the door behind her. I push my headphones down around my neck and rub the ache between my eyes as she locks my door and stomps down the hallway.
When she pauses next to Tristan’s door, I stiffen and grab my phone. With trembling fingers, I open my parental app and monitor the sounds in his room until she walks away.
I sigh in relief and close my eyes for a moment. When my chest finally stops aching, I send Tristan a heart through text and smile when he responds with a vomit emoji. After a quick go to sleep message, I set down my phone, submit my work to my professor, and minimize the page.
My phone vibrates. Dozens of z’s fill my screen. I chuckle, shake my head, and engage downtime on his computer, but extend his access on his phone for an extra fifteen minutes. I pull up a separate browser on my computer but wait until the faint sound of rushing water comes through my phone speaker before filtering the offers waiting in my inbox.
I’m no longer desperate for money, but the more I have in my account, the less I worry, so I’ll continue snagging the higher paying, quick turnaround online jobs as often as I can.
Less than five minutes later, Tristan’s shower turns off. I sigh and accept an offer before picking up my phone and sending my brother a toothbrush emoji. A few seconds later, he sends me a blurry photo of his reflection in his bathroom mirror with white foam dripping down his chin.
I blink back unexpected tears and breathe through the sudden lump in my throat.
He’s growing too fast. I upload the photo to my hidden cloud but delete it from our conversation—and every official record—before sending him a thumbs up.
Two minutes later, he wishes me goodnight. I end our conversation with a kiss emoji. My app alerts me as he opens his favorite game on his phone.
With half my attention on his app usage, I accept a job and halfway complete it before his phone locks him out. His grumbling as he settles into bed assures me he’s a healthy eight-year-old boy.
I finish the job and submit it for approval before closing the browser and logging into a program of my own making.
My heart skips a beat as a new device pops on screen. I scroll through the short call log and plug the phone numbers into the database I’ve been building for years.
After skimming through the conversations, I decide none of the information is worth transcribing and zip the files under today’s date before skimming through my mother’s tablet and phone usage. When I find nothing out of the ordinary, I pause long enough to pop a piece of gum in my mouth and let the blast of mint clear my head before I sneak into my father’s phone.
Three new contacts. Half a dozen new email addresses. Four accepted calls from numbers without contact information.
My stomach churns. I choose the longest call, fit my headphones over my ears, and brace my elbows on my desk.
Surprise flares through me as a woman’s voice comes through the speakers, but as the conversation unfolds, disgust supersedes all else. Ignoring my growing nausea, I transcribe the entire interaction and file it away before jumping into detective mode.
After a few minutes of typing, I successfully hack one of the unknown numbers from my father’s call log—a burner phone bought from a corner store on the other side of the city—and use the already-disposed-of-device to send an anonymous tip to my local police station.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs and silently curse myself. Tipping off the police isn’t part of my plan. I can’t keep taking unnecessary risks, but the thought of doing nothing fills me with guilt.
Some things my family thrives off—like drugs, weapons, and money laundering—I can ignore, since they rarely involve innocent people, but my father has grown less scrupulous over the years. I ruined his last attempt at human trafficking. I’ll do it again, if I must.
If my escape plans fall through and this is the only way I can protect Tristan, at least he won’t inherit an empire built on innocent women’s misfortune.
I’m not an idiot. Escaping the mafia lifestyle, especially from one of New York City’s founding families, is unlikely.
But I have to try.
I exit out of all my hacking programs and replace my history with a randomized list of presets and times before checking my inbox, sending the second half of my open job, and confirming the funds hit my account before closing down for the night.
I stumble through my nightly hygiene routine and snag my phone off my desk before dropping into bed. Right before I slip into a doze, my phone buzzes. I check the screen and grab the hairpins from my bedside table before tucking my phone into my pocket and rising.
With a few practiced moves, I pick the lock on my door and tiptoe down the hall to Tristan’s room. I pick his lock without turning on a light and ease his door closed behind me. I whisper his name. He whimpers and curls into a tighter ball. I settle onto the bed behind him and rub his back.
“Hush, Tristan, I’m here. You’re okay. No one can hurt you,” I whisper.
He wakes with a sob and rolls over to bury his face against my chest. I gather him to me and stroke his hair from his face.
He’s no longer the tiny newborn whose entire body fits on my torso, but he’s still my little brother. I’ll do anything for him. I wish I could take away his nightmares, but at least he doesn’t remember why he has them, and part of me is grateful I’m not alone. Even with star-shaped lights dancing across his ceiling from the lamp on his bedside table and his warm yet bony eight-year-old body curled against mine, I struggle to fall asleep as memories of the worst night of my life plague me.
I decide to stay with Tristan all night instead of going back and forth between our rooms, so I regulate my breathing until my body follows my cues and drops into regenerative sleep.
I grunt awake when Tristan’s bony elbow digs into my stomach.
“You’re in here again?” he mumbles as he sits up and rubs his eyes.
I groan and throw my arm over my face.
“Did I have another nightmare?” he asks.
I shrug and roll away from him.
“Ari, why’re you in here?”
His little hands push and pull at my shoulders.
“Did you spy on me again?”
I sigh and give a halfhearted, blind swat behind me.
“Give me a few minutes to wake up before you grill me, will ya?”
“You did spy, didn’t you!”
I shrug again and bury my face in his pillow.
“Why’re you always spying on me? Get out of my room,” he demands as he shoves my shoulder a few more times.
“What if mamma comes looking for you?”
I sigh and force myself to sit up.
“For real, though, did I wake you up in the middle of the night again?”
The worry in his tone wipes away the last traces of sleep. I shake my head and push my hair back from my face.
“No, you didn’t wake me. I hadn’t gone to sleep yet.”
“Ari!” His little hand whacks my leg with enough force to sting. I hiss and rub the spot. “You need to go to bed earlier. You can’t get sick again.”
“What do you mean again? You were only two the last time, so there’s no way you remember anything except what mamma told you. Stop letting her get to you.”
“Whatever! You were so pale and floppy when that man picked you up. I thought you were dead.”
My heart clenches. I hide my emotions behind a faux upset.
“Did you just call me floppy?”
His mouth flattens even as mirth glints in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls.
I flop onto my belly across his bed like an oversized rag doll, spreading my limbs and taking up as much space as I can. He pushes my arm off his lap. I dig my fingers into his side.
We devolve into chaos and giggles until his alarm rings. I stumble to my feet and toss his blanket back onto the bed.
“Alright! Playtime’s over. Get ready for tutoring,” I say, and chuck a pillow at his head when he groans.
“No complaining. I booked Mr. Hearthright every day this week.”
At my announcement, he perks up and catches the second pillow with ease.
“Will Adam and Taylor be there, too?”
I nod. His smile warms my soul.
“Thanks, big sis,” he says before bouncing into the bathroom.
Trusting him to get ready on his own, since he’ll basically be hanging out with his best friends and going on outlandish field trips with the eclectic and highly sought after private glorified babysitter every day for the next seven days, I slip into the hallway, lock his door behind me, and secure myself into my room before dropping the hair pins back into their jar.
With an unsettled sigh, I run my hands through my hair and walk into my bathroom.
I haven’t had an episode in six years, but I suppose if Tristan has night terrors about what happened when he was barely a week old, he could also remember seeing me faint. Guilt creeps through me. I’ll never let myself get so weak again. He shouldn’t have to worry about whether I can care for him.
With my resolve firmed, I change into gym clothes, tie my hair back, and slap on just enough makeup to appease my mother before tossing my purse into my duffle bag. I add a few extra protein bars into a side pocket and choose the least disgusting one for an early breakfast teaser and choke it down with half a bottle of water.
When my mother unlocks my door, I offer her my normal greeting. She eyes me with bleary contempt and shuffles down the hall without a word.
I wait until she slams her door behind her before I swing my duffle over my shoulder and scurry to Tristan’s room.
He bounces on the balls of his feet as I open his door.
“Hurry, she’s grumpy,” I whisper.
He closes his mouth with an invisible zipper and tosses the imaginary key over his shoulder. I place a kiss on his forehead and usher him down the stairs without another word.
We say good morning to the chef and eat toast and eggs—and my favorite morning spinach mix—while sitting at the bar as he prepares for my mother’s more elaborate meal. Before she glides down the stairs, I rush him out the front door, shake hands with Mr. Hearthright, and wave goodbye as our driver maneuvers the SUV through the front gates.
I turn around and freeze at the sight of my mother standing in the front doorway. She summons me into the ornate dining room with a tilt of her head and perches in her normal seat at the table as I drop my duffle on the floor beside the wall and settle in the seat beside her.
“You’ll meet your betrothed today.”
My entire body locks in shock. I stare at her as my brain struggles to process her words.
“He needs an heir. You’ll agree to give him one. Don’t speak a single fucking word otherwise, or you’ll never see your brother again.”
I blink and wonder what hellhole I fell into this morning.
She scoffs, picks up her steaming coffee, and glares at me out of the corner of her eye.
“What do you say, Aurora?”
I swallow but can’t force myself to respond.
“Don’t pretend this is a shock. You’re eighteen now. This was going to happen eventually.”
She sips her coffee and leans toward me. The evil gleam in her eyes curdles my stomach. I flick my attention between her face and the scalding coffee as it teases the rim of her mug. Just before it escapes onto my arm, I nod.
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
As my father’s footsteps sound on the stairs, she sneers, sets down her drink, and demands I be presentable by lunchtime before shooing me away.
I grab my duffle and escape out the side door without greeting my father. As I approach the car, the bulky driver snaps to attention and rushes to open my door for me. I thank him and request a ride to the gym as I drop into my seat.
He shuts the door, closing me in deafening silence as my mind reels from my mother’s decree. I press my palms over my eyes, uncaring about my makeup, and take several calming breaths before staring out the window in mute shock as the world rolls by.
Nothing matters so long as Tristan is safe. I don’t even care who I’m marrying, why an heir is so important to them, or how dangerous it’ll be for me to be pregnant. All I need is more time. Just a little more time.
My pep talk doesn’t work.
Dread builds in my chest.
