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Dad thinks he’s so clever, that marrying a Prescott will make the world fall in love with me, which means that in a few decades, I’ll be able to run for the presidency after him. It’s all about legacy and power, the continuation of our line. It's not just about getting power now; it's about keeping it.
Kimberly flips back her long, meticulously styled blonde hair, the strands catching the light in a way that highlights their expensive care. She buries her nose into her fourth martini. The fact that she can shoot back four martinis and still smile and talk like a pageant queen should tell you something. I mean, I’m not morally sound, but Kimberly might have me beat.
Kimberly’s perfectly manicured fingers, adorned with rings that scream of her socialite status, wrap tightly around the glass stem. She begins to drum her fake nails along the side; each tap a dagger to my composure. My jaw twitches at the sound; it sets my teeth on edge, making me fantasize about removing her from my life sooner than planned.
Kim is the epitome of high society in her designer dress, which clings to her figure in a way that's both elegant and calculated to draw eyes. The subtle shimmer of her makeup accentuates her features, giving her that flawless, almost ethereal look that's so coveted among her circles.
I'll give it to my dad; he found the perfect trophy wife for me. But I don't want a trophy; I want a cracked picture frame to be the star on my mantle. I want something unique, broken yet ensnared like a cracked picture frame holding a beautiful image, trapped in the loveliness I create for her.
Kim drowns herself in alcohol, whereas I have another vice to escape this torture.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and open the app I had one of my dad’s hackers make. The app that gives me a hit of my drug.
Poppy.
The usual screen of cameras littered around her apartment doesn’t open. It’s been a long fucking three days, and my guys assured me they’d get this fixed. Technical issue was their wording.
I might have a 'technical issue' with my knife if they don't get it fixed by tonight.
Kimberly orders another drink. I'm jealous. She can escape, but I can't. I squeeze my phone tighter.
Fuck this.“If you’ll excuse me,” I say as I stand and place my hand on my chest. I don’t give my father a look before I walk away from the table and head towards the private rooms in the back.
I hate this country club. I hate that Kelly, Kimberly’s mom, constantly refers to it as‘the country club.’
Why not just say club?
I won’t digress. I hate that the entire Prescott family has the imagination that stops at the letter K. You have my fiancée Kimberly, her mom Kelly, her dad Kent, and even the goddamn dog, which I fucking, yes, hate, has a K name. Kendall.
I slip into the private room, which is reserved for my dad, when we come to the club.See, dropping the first word wasn't that hard. Seriously Kelly!
A private room costs half a million to reserve here. Pocket change.
The plaque above the door says Sinclair. Dear old dad loves to see his name, whether it be on the news, good or bad, because all press is good press, on a billboard, a campaign sign, or even on a baby. Yes, some people actually ask my dad to sign their babies, and you think I'm the insane one?
I snort as I walk to the bar cart that is always stocked with Dad's favorite Irish whiskey. My pour into the crystal glass splashes out like floodwaters. The amber liquid coats my fingers as I raise the glass, filled to the brim, and down it in one burning shot.
What my dad failed to realize is that as much as people love a legacy, they love a sad story even more. People eat that shit up. That's why I won't be marrying Kimberly. It's easy to win over stupid people, but in order to succeed and truly rule the world, you need smart people on your side. Smart people see the Prescotts for what they are: old money, spoiled, rich, fucking irritating.
Dad should ask himself who smart people would like. They'd like a girl who has survived. Take Poppy, for example; her parents bit the dust, and so did her brother. That’s a good start, but we need more to really capture the hearts of the masses.That’s where my plan comes into play. I’m going to paint myself as the poor groom who lost his fiancée in a tragic accident. I'll mourn Kimberly, publicly, that is; privately, I'll rejoice.
Eventually, I’ll bring Poppy into the spotlight; the people will see her background mixed with mine, two souls who suffered but now found love.
I grin freely now as I twist the crystal glass in my hand. It's been so many years of planning this behind my dad's back. The time is almost upon us. The week of the wedding would have been overkill, but a few months before the wedding of the century, well, that's just enough of a shock.
Dad will get more sympathy votes, and I’ll get Poppy. It's perfect.
I hit refresh on the app again. My frustration goes from a simmer to a boil.
It's cute Poppy thought I let her go. I can't help myself; I love mind games. You see, hitting people is easy, and it's also weak. Messing with someone's mind, though, that's real power—the kind I crave.
If you pull the right strings, you can mentally ensnare a person and make their very thoughts the walls of their own cage. I can't wait to see how my Poppy will react once her own mind traps her.
The anticipation is intoxicating. Every step, every calculated move, brings me closer to that moment.
I’ve watched Poppy try to date and fail. Ok, so one guy I killed, but I let the others live. I needed Poppy to see that no one compared to me. No one has.
Until this one.
