Ruthless Empire (Royal Elite #6)(22)

Both of them do it, actually, but Papa is more passive-aggressive about it. Mum is too direct.

Since their divorce, I feel like I age three years for every year. The only things I care about are making Mum happy enough so her mind won’t lead her in the other direction and spending time with Papa in an attempt to reduce his loneliness.

When it gets too much, like too much, I go to the park and cry. In those dark moments, I wish they would never have given birth to me, or I imagine how my life would’ve been if I had whole parents like Ronan’s or Kimberly’s.

Every one of those times, Cole has found me in that park. It’s like he hunts me down just so he can catch me crying.

He sits beside me in silence, mostly reading from a book, and that’s enough to make me stop crying.

It’s enough for my tears to turn to hiccoughs before they eventually disappear.

I hate that he has the ability to calm me down by his presence alone, but I keep my mouth shut about it. I’ve accepted it because we share secrets. He knows something about me no one else does and vice versa.

So his betrayal yesterday stung more than I like to admit. It cut me open and is still refusing to be sewn back together.

I might have hurt him back in the only way I knew how, but unlike what I thought, it doesn’t make me happy.

Not in the least.

If anything, it smashes a heavier weight on my chest.

“Come on, Mum. Go shower. You have to be in that radio studio today, remember?” And yes, I have both my parents’ calendars on my phone. I’m that desperate to be the breeze that makes their lives easier, not harder.

She stands up on wobbly feet and takes my hand in hers. “Remember, Babydoll. Men are only to be used. Feelings and all that stupidity was invented by unsuccessful people. Your worth is what you offer to the world — your beauty, your intelligence, and your competitiveness. No man should steal those from you.” She lays a hand on my heart. “Seal this.” Mum taps my temple. “And you’ll win using this.”

Then she goes to shower. I wait until she gets in her car before I leave. I’m going to listen to her radio show to make sure she’s doing well.

Though I have no doubt she’ll nail it. Mum is a goddess outside the walls of her flat. She allows no one to see her weaknesses. She never gets flustered, not even during the divorce when the reporters didn’t leave us in peace. Papa appeared exhausted and a bit sad at that time, but she put on her best designer clothes and makeup, took all the questions, and told them their decision was amicably made right after she finished a yelling session with Papa.

“Where to, Miss Queens?” Derek asks from the driver seat. I feel sorry for him. Not only does he have to stick to Papa’s hopping schedule, but he also drives me around whenever I wish.

I consider skipping today. My head is mush and I could use ten hours of sleep.

But that would mean running away, and I don’t do that.

I’m the type who runs straight into the middle of the danger instead of shying away from it. If I’m to be killed sooner or later, I will find a solution or die trying.

It’d be worth it.

“To school,” I tell Derek as I scroll through my phone.

My Instagram feed is full of Papa’s campaign friends. There’s a picture of him and Uncle Jonathan participating in the opening of a childcare centre yesterday. That must have been where they came from.

There’s a picture of Mum in LBC’s official Instagram page as a guest for today’s political talk. She looks so radiant in that shot, her smile to die for.

I upload the selfie I took with her before she went out, where we’re smiling at the camera, and caption it: Proud of you, my heroine. #VoteforWomen #WomenforWomen #SuperWoman #CynthiaDavisPoliticalTalk

I schedule another post for later. It’s a picture I took while I was helping Papa put on his tie yesterday.

In the caption, I write: Voted as the best father in the world by yours truly. #ProudDaughter #SebastianQueensForTheWin #GoTories

Whenever I post a pic with one of them, I feel guilty if I don’t follow up with a pic of the other one.

People say you get used to it with time — the double holidays, the double dinners, the double birthday celebrations — but you don’t. Not really.

Especially when one parent is lonely and the other is depressed.

I scroll further and find a picture from Aiden uploaded around one in the morning. It’s a black and white shot of his chessboard.

The caption says: The war has started. Nash?

Cole doesn’t use Instagram or any social media. All pictures of him can only be found on Aiden’s, Xander’s, and especially Ronan’s Instagram accounts.

Does Aiden’s post mean Cole paid him a visit last night? I squash that thought away before I can allow my heart to soak in it.

He wouldn’t have. That would mean he cares, and he doesn’t.

Or, rather, he does, but only if it’s part of his sick games.

I reread his text from yesterday, and the chest tightness I felt when I first saw it swallows me again.

I hate him.

We arrive at school and I thank Derek, then give him a spare bottle of juice on my way out. “Have a wonderful day.”

As soon as I’m out of the car, I lift my chin up, square my shoulders, and walk with my nose practically in the sky. I ignore the ones who tell me good morning and I pretend the world doesn’t exist.