Page 2 of The Royal Art of Revenge

But to Rosalyn and Jasmine, I’m merely a scapegoat. The one to take the blame when something goes wrong—in other words, when Jasmine fucks up. I’m the one to beat down, to break, to blame, all in the name of reminding me of my place.

This place... this family... it’s nothing but my worst nightmare.

The only good thing going for it is that my stepmother and half-sister feel the same way about me, and I can’t describe how happy it makes me to know that my mere existence pisses them off. That the fact I didn’t die is a perpetual thorn in their side.

That my presence makes them scared.

Sometimes, it’s all that gets me through the day.

I’m fuelled by sugar and spite.

And the desire for revenge.

If you cut me open, I’m sure I’d bleed little balls of pure vengeance instead of blood. I’m made of hatred, of a low simmering anger that bubbles permanently just beneath the surface of my skin, pleading to be let free.

But it’s too soon.

Not yet.

Just… a little longer.

I cannot give in to my emotions, to my deepest desires. To do so would be throwing away everything I’ve worked for over the last few years. I haven’t put myself through hell since I returned to my home country just to ruin all my plans in one moment of weakness.

These plans... the carefully laid stepping stones... the bombs tucked beneath the bushes...

No, no.

I must light the fuse for it all at the right time.

For myself.

For my mother.

For the life that was stolen from me.

For the life that belongs to me, the one I will reclaim bit by bit, even if it means clawing it back on my knees in the dirt.

I will burn this family to ashes while I do it. I will tear apart every brick of this mansion, dismantle every department of the family business, lay bare every dirty secret hiding beneath the floorboards.

And I’ll do it with a smile.

It’s no less than the bastards deserve.

I sigh and get out of bed, heading towards the window. I pull open the curtains and push open the top window, letting the sound of early morning birdsong filter into my bedroom and sing away some of this morning’s bitterness.

Just a little, mind you.

I need a good chunk of it to get me through breakfast, especially after last night’s endless nightmares. Bitterness helps with the fantasy of my sister choking on her toast—the only way I can get through any mealtime in this godforsaken family. The longer I’m here, forced to play the cruel, jealous big sister to Jasmine’s innocent façade, to be her scapegoat, the thinner the rope holding onto my patience seems to grow.

I can feel it now. It’s barely even a rope anymore. All that’s left is a frayed, worn thread hanging on for dear life.

If that isn’t a metaphor for my life in general, I don’t know what is.

It really isn’t a lie when I say I survive on spite. It’s the only way I’ve been able to put up with the absolute shit my stepmother and half-sister have put me through over the last two years. There are only so many times one can grit their teeth and bear abuse before even a feather duster begins to look like a viable murder weapon.

But the time is coming.

It’s close.