Page 2 of Damsel in Disguise

I rewind it. Again. And again.

I try to lose myself in that rare, authentic-fake smile of his, the one that slips out only when perfection cracks—like mistakes are something that shouldn’t even exist beneath the soles of his polished leather shoes.

But tonight my mind refuses to stay put.

It drifts back to the sound of the door slamming. Asher, my older brother, storming out. Adrian, our closest cousin, following right behind him. I know he followed Asher. Those two are inseparable.

I stayed behind, sitting at the table, swallowing the bitter ache of wanting one simple thing—a peaceful family dinner. After almost two years. Two years without actually spending time with my brother here.

He’s there whenever I need him. Always. He never judged me for anything. So what if he’s tangled up in the mafia world? I don’t care if he kills people for fun. I only care that he’s my brother. I hate Dad for kicking him out.

A low growl of pure annoyance slips free from my throat.

That’s when Alistair chooses to chuckle in the video.

“I know this is where it gets difficult…” he says, clearly referring to the math—but the way he looks straight into the camera when he speaks makes my body tighten anyway.

It feels like he’s talking to me.

Like he’s commenting on the mess in my head. On how I was supposed to explain to Asher that I said I’m moving to England out of nowhere. But he left before I got the chance.

So I try to focus on him instead.

I’ve been obsessed with Alistair for so long that I’ve started mimicking him without realizing it. The accent. The posh British inflection.

People have started pointing it out—saying I don’t sound Australian anymore. My parents noticed. And tonight, when Asher arrived for dinner, hugged me, tilted his head like he was trying to place something familiar yet wrong, I blurted out—I’m going to England. How? I’ve absolutely no idea.

And even if I do get there, then what?

The man of my fantasies has been locked into a loveless marriage for three years. I can see it in his eyes in the handful of photos he’s posted of himself with his wife. The distance. The emptiness. Even though the thin platinum band glints on his left ring finger.

Should I go full Grande on him? Break up with your girlfriend, ‘cause I’m bored…?

Why would I want him to divorce his wife when I could simply erase her from existence?

Being underage wouldn’t land me in prison for life. At worst, a psychiatric ward. And I’m a Keinston. Stains don’t stick to our last name. Dad would make sure of that. He always does.

Still, one thing keeps gnawing at me.

Alistair Hertley is careful. Shady, even, about where he lives. His Instagram is full, yet so empty—every photo taken in the same few locations, the same curated angles. Thinking about uncovering his darkest secret sends a flutter of anticipation through my chest every time.

He even wears the same wristwatch always. Funny, I can’t pinpoint which luxury brand it is.

Once a thought attaches itself to me, it tends to root deep enough to become a disease.

I just want to be enrolled in Oxford University to know him. But then again, I can never persuade Dad about letting me study abroad. He’s hell-bent on keeping me here.

The following afternoon, one would find me exactly where I always am whenever CoreCircuits announces a live session.

Lying on my stomach. Feet swinging in the air. Door locked. Laptop open. Waiting.

Suddenly, my phone flashes with Daddy written across the screen. I huff in annoyance and ignore it.

It rings again, but this time I put my phone on silent and throw it to the farthest end of the bed.

My heart almost flinches a little too late from the dread of accidentally crashing it against the headboard, but thankfully, it doesn’t.

I’m still mad at my father for repeatedly dismissing me about my ambition.