3

Gwyneth I’m officially an adult now. Or that’s what I like to think. Dad definitely still considers me a little girl that he needs to protect at all times. I can sense him watching me, even when he’s out of sight. Especially during the moments when I plan to do something he doesn’t approve of. Ever since I showed up at his door when I was less than one day old, Kingsley Shaw has made it his mission to protect me at all costs. It didn’t matter that he was seventeen going on eighteen and in high school at the time and had no damn clue how to raise a kid. Especially a naughty, active one like me. He still singlehandedly raised me while he went to college and then law school and passed the bar. Let’s just say that toddler me didn’t exactly make Dad’s college life easy, but he never once made me feel like he was absent. I’ve always been a well-loved daughter, albeit lonely, with a brain that suddenly becomes blank for no apparent reason. The therapist Dad took me to says it’s depression. I call it an empty brain that no therapist can cure, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was loved but never spoiled or treated as if I were royalty just because my grandpa was rich or Dad owns a law firm. He’s still strict as fuck and gives me a curfew—that I will hopefully get rid of today. I tell my dad’s friends that I’m going to grab something to drink. I don’t really have many of my own friends, so Dad usually brings his. When I do invite my classmates, they get super intimidated by all the hotshot businessmen and political figures that are present, so I stopped making them and myself flustered. I don’t like my birthday anyway. It reminds me of the day when my empty brain was born. And the woman who gave it to me. Anyway, I walk among the crowd, forcing smiles. They don’t come naturally to me, not like they do for Dad. Many things he excels at are my weaknesses, such as physical activities, charisma, and a complete brain, I guess. What I’m good at, though, is multitasking, so I don’t have any trouble running my gaze over all the people present while smiling and playing my birthday girl role—the role I play every year for Dad. My dark red dress clings to my skin, but that has nothing to do with the perspiration after so much moving around. I resist the urge to wipe my sweaty hands on the material. Not only is it designer, but I also chose it carefully, so I’d look like an adult. It molds to my curves and shows off my waist, and it also has a deep V-neckline, accentuating my breasts and teasing some cleavage. I even sacrificed my favorite white sneakers for the black high heels that are currently murdering my poor feet. But it’s all for nothing if I can’t find him. My nape heats and strands of my long hair stick to my neck and temples. The more distance I cross, the more I clink my nails together. Almost everyone Dad knows is here, almost, because my step-grandma is never welcome in Grandpa’s house, per Dad’s words. And him. The man I’ve started to look for in a crowd when I have no right to. After what seems like forever, I throw my weight on the swing Dad made for me and put in the backyard near the second pool when I was a kid. My gaze gets lost in the lights shining from the water, and I release a long breath. The area is lit by lanterns and countless strips of fairy lights hanging between the trees, but it’s still dim compared to the front of the house. My heart feels a little bit bruised, stomped upon, even though I have no actual logical reason to feel this way. But what is logic anyway? Dad says all the good things are a little jaded, imperfect. Illogical, even. I’m not supposed to wallow in misery on my long-awaited eighteenth birthday, but here I am. Swinging back and forth in the wake of the destruction that’s happening in my chest. I had great plans for today. Not because I like birthdays, but because this one is special. This one means I’m officially no longer a child. But my most important plan was aborted before it was even implemented. I retrieve my phone from my bra and scroll to the photo album named “Memories.” I find a picture from my first birthday, where I was squealing in Dad’s arms while Uncle Nate was trying to grab me. Nate. Not Uncle Nate. He’s Nate. I run my fingers over his face and pause at the jolt that zips through my entire body. It’s been some time since I started feeling these weird zaps whenever I see him or think of him. He even started appearing in naughty dreams that made me sweaty and wet and I had to relieve myself in the middle of the night. That’s why he can’t be Uncle Nate anymore. He’s not even Dad’s friend or the man who’s more powerful than the world. He might be a senator’s son, but he’s so much more than that. He owns half of the world and eats the rest of it for breakfast. “There you are.” I freeze, my hand tightening on the phone. Did I maybe gain wizard abilities for my birthday and conjure him up? That’s stupid, of course, because I can feel the warmth his body always emanates and smell his cologne. A little bit musky, a little bit spicy. A little bit…wrong. I shouldn’t know him by his smell alone or be able to recognize him among the dozens of people crowding our house. I shouldn’t have heated ears and a throbbing neck just because I heard the deep, rough tenor of his voice that’s only meant to say firm, serious things. A voice that I’ve started to dream about despite my damn self. And now, he’s behind me. And that means he can see my phone. I jolt, hugging it to my chest, and in hindsight, that’s such a bad idea, because now I’m thinking about him between my breasts, and my heart kind of explodes all over the place. My reaction goes downhill from there and there’s no way to stop it. My lips part, and my expression must be frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. But instead of commenting on his picture on my phone, he steps in front of my swing, towering over me like a fucking god. One with Adonis looks and as cold as the statue. That’s what one of the magazines compared him to. They called Senator Brian Weaver’s son—that’s Nate, by the way—one of the most sought-after bachelors and the most apathetic of them all. But I’ve never received the frigid treatment everyone talks about. For me, he has always been warm. Well, somewhat warm. Because Uncle Nate is too businesslike to ever be warm in the traditional sense. Nate. I chastise myself. It’s Nate. “Don’t worry. I won’t peek at your conversations with your boyfriend.” My heart does that flippy thing that makes me feel as if I’m going to vomit or faint or maybe both. While it does have something to do with his presence when I thought he wouldn’t come, it’s more about what he said. Boyfriend. As in, he’s my boyfriend since I was staring at him. Well, that’s not exactly what he meant, but in my twisted brain, it sure as hell counts. I tilt my head back to see the entirety of him. Though I doubt there’s any picture frame that can contain him. His face is all sharp lines and defined cheekbones, which become shadowed depending on where the light is coming from. He has the type of features that communicate with the slightest twitch and the merest of movements. Nate has always had immaculate control over his body language and facial expressions, and it shows in each of his movements. The older I’ve gotten, the more aware I’ve become of his imposing, silent character that speaks through actions more than words. I’ve also begun to see why he’s the perfect partner for Dad. They’re alike in a way, but Nate is still harder to read. Due to his rigid demeanor, I have to be extra careful in deciphering any change in his facial expressions. It’s blank now, which could mean a lot of things. Is he angry, disapproving? Or maybe he’s just indifferent as he is most of the time. I can’t stop looking at him, studying him, getting my fill of his face as if I won’t see him for a while. I’m engraving everything into my memory, like how he fills his suit or how he appears majestic in it. I can’t stop staring at his thick brows and lashes, at the slight stubble covering his jaw, and at how a few strays of dark blond hair kiss his forehead with each gust of wind. And for a tiny moment, I wish I was a stray hair or the air. Either would do. But what I really can’t stop staring at are his dark eyes that appear almost black right now. Those eyes have a language of their own that no one is allowed to learn, no matter how much they attempt to. A language that I’ve been desperately trying to speak for a while now. I grip the phone harder, needing the courage it provides as I speak, “I don’t have a boyfriend.” “One less thing for King to worry about.”