Shattered Dynasty

Both of us freeze.

Then Trent grits out, “We’re going back to my house. You can eat there.”

I shrug, returning my hand back to my half of the car, where it belongs. “I didn’t want to eat with you anyway.”

We continue to drive, the air in the car thick with tension.

This man makes no sense.

A conundrum I have no hopes of unraveling.

The perfect treatment he gives to Ivy and his mom makes sense. They’re his family. The one that didn’t abandon him. But the center? It’s obvious everyone at Cresthill loves Trent Aldridge. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, mostly because the label’s warning reads: HE ONLY HATES YOU, PAYTON.

I stare at his profile, not bothering to hide it.

Why are you treating me like I’m the one who hurt your family? Yeah, you’re pissed at your dad, but what the hell? Can’t you just yell at me, get it off your chest, visit one of those expensive Manhattan therapists? Literally anything but this . . .

If my attention bothers him, Trent doesn’t show it.

“You don’t even need the money,” I finally say.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

He changes lanes with ease, then we’re back in his part of the city. The part full of men like him. Rich, savage, and privileged.

Who are you kidding, Payton? Those men are minnows. He’s the shark.

“Twenty-two million is pocket change for you,” I state the obvious. “So, what is this? A big middle finger to Daddy? Grow up, Trent.”

“The money is blood money, princess.”

“Well, maybe it doesn’t have to be . . .”

“What is that supposed to mean? There is no changing what it is. If you have a time machine that can take you back to the moment that bastard made the money, do share. Maybe while you’re at it, I can end him before he chooses to sell Ivy.”

I swallow. A lump in my throat formed with his rage. By my own, too. The part of me that believes Trent is angry. Stewing at Ronnie.

Some lines should never be crossed, and hurting your family is one of them. It makes Ronnie just like Erin.

Actually, it makes him worse.

At least Erin never sold me. I mean, I don’t doubt that she’s tried, but she’s not the type to succeed at things.

So, there’s that.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you going to do, donate it all?” He snorts. “Doubtful. I have seen your bank records. Or lack thereof. You don’t have two pieces of shit to rub together.”

“What the hell! What do you mean you’ve seen my bank records? That’s a huge invasion of privacy!”

I have a whopping twenty-five dollars in the bank. I set it up when I turned eighteen, never used it, and let it sit with the minimum deposit. I kept it open to remind me of the choices I’ve made. Instead of eating that day, I opened a savings account.

I chose to hope for a future.

“Cry me a river.”

“You can’t just go about meddling in people’s lives.”

“Yet . . .” He trails off with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Even though half his face is out of view, the side I do see is obnoxious enough that I want to remove my shoe and throw it at his face.

Seeing as he’s driving, and I don’t have a death wish, I’ll refrain.

Barely.

“I’m not your dad.” I glare out the front windshield, hating the city for the first time. Every inch of it reminds me of Trent. “Making my life hell won’t fix what he did to you. And despite what you think, I never knew about your family. I was kept in the dark. So hurting me doesn’t change anything.”

“But it will make me feel better.”

“It will be a short-lived pleasure.”

“What do you know about that?”

“I know a lot more than you’d expect.” The double entendre isn’t lost on me. I flush, reminded of the shower. Gosh, I really screwed myself with that one.

Figuratively and literally.

“You think you’ve had it rough,” I pivot. “Try living in a ca—” I stop myself before I finish.

The vehicle rolls to a stop, and Trent looks at me.

“You lived in a car?”

“Not everyone grew up in a gilded castle.”

“So, basically, that means your sister really is a whore.”

Of course, that’s what he got from that.

“She did what she had to do to survive and keep us both alive.” I don’t like the defensive edge to my voice. It makes me feel like my life is a game. One in which I’m always on defense.

I don’t know why I bother to even tell him this. He knows nothing of the suffering that comes from poverty. His privilege is so thick, not even an obsidian knife could cut through it, and that shit is volcanic glass.

“And you . . .” He looks me up and down. I think it’s disdain, but I don’t trust myself to get an accurate read on him right now. Not when I’m so on edge. “Did you do who she had to do, too . . . ?”