Prologue
Asheville.
Always flushed to the brim with its incessant displays of repugnant clichés and grandiose gestures, to the point of being nauseating. Nothing that happens in this town comes as much of a surprise to me anymore. However, witnessing its greedy antics up close and personal still churns my stomach. Being born and bred into such a deceptive environment, you would assume I’d be acclimated to it by now. But you’d be wrong.
The only thing I’ve become accustomed to is envy. It is a living, breathing thing, and if you live in this town long enough, it can corrupt your every thought and action.
And how could it not?
Bitter resentment is the only plausible reaction you could have when living in a town whose main ambition is to hoard as many influential one-percenters as it can. But even Asheville requires elitist traditions to tempt the pseudo-aristocrats from taking their millions and living elsewhere. Like a needy paramour, this wretched place pulls out all the stops to ensure the object of its desire doesn’t stray too far from its clutches.
Throughout the decades, Northside has perfected its proficiency in seduction. It knows by heart what webs to weave, enticing the wealthy into choosing the small North Carolina town as their primary place of residence. Mastering the art of luring the most powerful men and women in the world has been an Asheville tradition since its original founding family settled here.
The Richfields may have stumbled upon this patch of land and its Carolina borders by happenstance, but they made it thrive through every epidemic, war, and plight our country ever encountered. Their success has turned their family name into one prestigious enough to rival the Rothschilds and Vanderbilts of the world.
Of course, throughout the years, either by marriage or shrewd dealings, the surname should have been diluted with others, a common occurrence in most families. Yet, against all the odds, the Richfield name, much like their ambition, persists to this very day. They are a reminder that true American royalty can only be achieved by blood and not by the nine-digit bank account one owns.
Since even the rich and powerful need to be seen mingling with the very best, there’s no better place to guarantee just that than the birthplace of the last remaining Richfield heirs. And should such a town also indulge their inhabitants in their every sin and craving, then that’s just an added bonus to their bloated-up vanity.
All of this is revolting to me, especially the mastermind family behind such ambitions. The lengths in which this small town has gone to sell its soul feels like acrid bile lodged in my throat, suffocating my every intake of breath. Case in point, the pitiful excuse of a dinner party I was ordered to attend tonight.
Every month the illustrious Richfield Country Club strokes the crème of the crop’s ego by throwing a dinner with one of Asheville’s esteemed inhabitants in mind. The event is meant to preen over the distinguished member with glorified speeches, a celebratory banquet, and enough Dom Perignon Rose Gold to drown a small country.
If that doesn’t turn your stomach, then nothing will.
Tired of putting on my fake charismatic smile, I find a dark corner in the room and take in the exaggerated, privileged scenery in front of me. Not even the sweet-tart champagne makes it easier to swallow such fabricated surroundings. Everyone is dressed in their finest, laughing, and drinking the overpriced pink monstrosity while pretending not to scrutinize every guest here with their leering covetous look. The shallow thoughts dancing in their minds manage to crawl up my skin, prickling it with their superficial concerns.
Is she wearing the latest fashion?
Did he come in a new car?
What vacation do they have planned for winter break?
What merger is on the books that will make them a few cool millions?
These soirees are nothing but poor excuses to gossip about who has the most and who pales in comparison. And to the utter dismay of most in attendance, they can’t compare to tonight’s homage recipient—Richard Price.
Not only is he the owner of one of the largest American banks, but he makes its competitors—JP Morgan and Merrill Lynch—look like a child’s piggy bank. While a board of many possesses those financial institutions, Price has the bragging rights of owning his all by himself. And one day, his entire wealth will be passed to a man who isn’t even his blood—Easton Price, his adoptive bastard.
Now here is the kicker.
Asheville may have many sins, but so do I.
I’m a product of my environment, after all.
The repulsion I feel about the way this town fawns over its rich citizens doesn’t measure up to the disgust of witnessing firsthand how most are undeserving of the lavish lifestyles they lead.
Resentment and jealousy are my constant bedfellows, and therein lies the rub.
I despise their frivolous ways, but envy the power they wield, too.
Easton and his band of brothers are a perfect example of how unfair and unjust life can be. They’re all a waste of space, in one form or another, but I have to admit, Easton annoys me in his own particular way. While some families use the threat of disinheritance to make their children obedient, Price is offering the world to his stepson, and the fucker has the audacity to spit it back in his face. Now tell me that isn’t a blow to the head?
All his momma had to do was open those legs of hers, and Easton was given everything anyone could ever dream of. Present company not excluded.
Wealth.
Respect.
Power.
Some of us have to work hard every day just to earn a small portion of what he gets without even trying. Yes, good fortune has been in Easton’s favor for quite some time now. But unbeknownst to him, his luck is about to change for the worse. Someone should have warned him that luck is a fickle mistress, bound to run out sooner or later.
Luckily for me, I’m just the person who will ensure he gets what’s owed. The house always wins, and it’s time Easton pays up. He and his friends fucked up when they messed with my future, and now they will play by my rules until they set things right. Not that they can ever give me back what I lost that night.
No one can.
But that doesn’t mean my revenge on them won’t be just as sweet.
My upper lip tugs at the side when my eyes behold my first victim, marveling at how the mighty have fallen.
Finn Walker strolls around the lavish room with his chin held up high and a blank expression on his face. His stoic demeanor is a futile attempt at masking the fact that his reputation has been tarnished by my little stunt. He continues to pretend he’s still a part of the Walker family, even though his parents haven’t said one word to him the entire evening. I can’t help but smirk, knowing I had a hand in his ruin. He might act as if he’s still the captain of the football team, the king on campus, but everyone knows he’s anything but. The shine to his gold has withered away, leaving nothing but rust and decay.
The raven-haired girl at his side, looking up at him every so often with wide green eyes and a slanted grin, is just the icing on the cake. Finn and Stone have become inseparable since I forced their paths to collide, so it’s no surprise that the simpleminded fool brought his Southie whore to such an elitist affair. He even got her a pretty dress, trying to disguise her true self from the rest of us—Southside trash.