Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
I wasn’t afraid, and I was far from crying. This was always going to happen when the Royals realized I was here to avenge Winter. It happened faster than I expected and Owen skipped from taunts straight to violence. It didn’t faze me.
I came here to burn, destroy, lay waste to all in my path. Surviving the war didn’t matter. Winning it does.
Blowing out a breath, I stroked my sore throat.
It begins.
THURSDAY MORNING, I chose a red turtleneck sweater dress from my closet and paired it with black boots. The bruise from Owen’s good night hadn’t faded.
It was the first day of classes. According to the sophomore class schedule, they had their first class of the day at seven and my freshman English class was at eight. It gave me an hour to walk free and eat breakfast without running into Owen or his friends.
I stuck my head out the door to be sure, hand clutching the stun gun. His friends swore while they were shouting through my door that they’d get me back.
No one was there. I left and headed for the breakfast hall. Heavenly smells wafted out the door, drawing me in with a grumbling belly.
The buffet selections changed every day because that’s the world I lived in now. At St. Thomas’s, we had three items available for breakfast: cereal, oatmeal, and frozen pancakes. That morning, I loaded my plate with a veggie quiche, chocolate chip monkey bread, and vanilla bean French toast. Hey, I put the veggie quiche on my plate. That’s healthy enough.
Stepping off the line, I searched for a table. Mock whispers hit my ear as I weaved past the chairs.
“...she’s that girl’s sister...”
“...marrying a Wilson...”
“...heard she crashed a boat and got sent to a nunnery...”
“...total trash...”
“...worthless Dreg...”
“Gold digger.”
Lifting my chin, I sat down at a booth in the back, pretending I didn’t see the people who dropped their bags on the empty seats. I picked up my knife and fork and cut into my French toast.
A tray dropped next to mine. Victor pulled up a chair and got comfortable. I froze with my breakfast halfway to my mouth.
“Excuse me? What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He was fresh from a shower. Droplets clung to the nape of his neck, running free down his merry-go-round curls. Sweet scents of bergamot and candy apples hit my nose, wrinkling it.
“You smell like you just got out of some girl’s shower.”
“You smell like you just got off the food stamp line.” He sniffed me. “Ah, yes, eau de poor.”
“Will you get run over by a car already?”
To my surprise, he chuckled. “Ah, Sinclair. Our battle of wits is always fun, but now that we’ve announced our engagement, we need to set some ground rules.”
My eyes narrowed to slits. Victor had a pleasant, even tone, but he never used it on me. “What kind of ground rules?”
“If we’re going to fight or argue, we don’t do it in public. Everyone knows that this is an arranged marriage, but they don’t have to know it’s an unwanted one. It’ll start up all kinds of questions that we don’t need.”
I made a noise in my throat. “It’ll start up questions from other people? I’m the one with questions, Victor. My stepdad and your parents arranged this whole thing, and I still don’t know why. What is everyone getting out of this?”
“You know the answer to that. The Wilsons have a stake in almost every industry—including Formula One racing. Your stepdad is about to become an exclusive tire supplier for NASCAR.”
“I did know that,” I said, boring into the side of his head. “What I don’t know is what the Wilsons get out of the arrangement.”
He blew out a breath. “If I tell you the truth, will you agree to my rules?”
“Before I’ve heard them?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated—a bit too long since he turned back to his breakfast.
“Guess you’ll never know.”
“Fine,” I blurted. “I’ll agree to the rules. Tell me why Martha Wilson is so eager to have me as her daughter-in-law.”
Victor glanced around, lowering his voice. “Strategic, mutually beneficial marriages are common in Regalia, but not at eighteen. If we did this the right way, our engagement party would be held in our late twenties—giving us both a chance to study, date, travel, have flings, and enjoy ourselves before we settle down. For all the other eligible women in Regalia, they’re attached to that tradition and aren’t willing to give up their freedom eight years early.” He grinned. “You, Sinclair, were.”
“That’s it?” My mind struggled with the explanation. “It was me because Jack was willing to enter me in the broodmare race first? What about you? Why would you want to get married now?”
“My father’s sixty-eight years old. He has a weak heart, diabetes, and a bunch of other health issues. He needs to retire, but he won’t because he won’t appoint a successor to run Wilson Industries.