Page 2 of Shattered Queens: Veronica
Of course he does. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.” I see the smirk on his face, and it only adds to my irritation.
“Okay, but my offer still stands. Anything for Mrs. Abigail Kayde.”
Ugh, I think I’m going to be sick. Kiss-ass. I look at my father, who shoots Cam a death stare. Good. Overzealous asshole. I try not to smile. My father can see through all the bullshit. It’s a curse and a blessing. That’s why I keep my distance from him, but not just him, everyone.
“Veronica, is everything all right?” my mother asks, her arm around my father’s.
“Yes, sorry, I was just thinking I need to check on Tabitha. I haven’t heard from her. She didn’t make it to my birthday party and hasn’t responded to any of my messages.”
“The party that you had without inviting your family.” My dad’s voice is stern.
Ialmostroll my eyes at him. Almost. “Dad, I told you, it was last-minute. Plus, Mom needed to rest. It was something small.”
“Small? It was all over social media, Veronica Kayde.”
I wince at the mention of my full name. I flew to Miami last month and had a party because, if anything, I feed into the stereotypes that people say about me: rich party girl who lives off her parents’ money. This time, I did intend for the party to be small, but things got out of control, people were drinking—a lot—then pills started getting passed around. Things went downhill after that. I was in the bathroom getting fingered by a girl I met. By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late.
My cousin owns the club; it’s the only reason I wasn’t skinned alive. He also took it easy on me because it’s been a tough year. A few months ago, two men attempted to blackmail me with photos they took of me in a dressing room. It was humiliating and degrading; what’s worse is that it was two people I let into my friend circle. A circle that has withered. Again, I needed my family to come to the rescue.
“Excuse me, but I think this is my cue to leave,” Cam announces. He stands up and looks at me. “My offer still stands, Veronica.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to me, then turns toward the door to take his leave.
I turn and look at my parents, disappointment etched in my father’s face, and my mom looks so defeated. “I’m sorry about the party. I’m sorry I’m such a goddamn wreck, but I’mtrying.” My voice is raw and jagged, breaking under the weight of a thousand unspoken failures. My mom passes me a tissue, and I instinctively lean into her. She holds me, just like when I was a child.
“You are not a wreck,” she whispers. “You’re just lost.”
“I’m trying, I really am,” I say loud enough for my father to hear.
“We know you are.” She places a kiss on my forehead.
“I have to go,” I blurt out, pushing back from the table. I need to leave. I can’t stay any longer. I feel like I’m suffocating with the weight of my secrets and shame.
Veronica
Chapter 2
I’ve been looking foran apartment for weeks, and nothing. Well, I found a couple of places, but they are either owned by my family or my cousins, the Korolovs, which is the opposite of what I want. Looking around at my cousin Caleb’s penthouse, I feel like such a hypocrite. I left my parents’ house and came here,again. It’s not like he needs it. Caleb is the eldest of the Korolov brothers. He, along with his young brother Damon, owns the majority of the clubs and bars in Veridian Bay. They have businesses worldwide. Like Ian, Caleb will also inherit his family’s empire, which I know expands beyond what I can see. He would rather stay close to his business, so I get free rein to all his and Damon’s vacant apartments.
I love my cousins, but out of the two, I prefer Caleb’s place. He’s the more discreet brother. I know I won’t find random, naked women walking around his apartment at all hours of the day. It must be niceto be a privileged man in this world, where you can do anything and not be picked apart for your choice. Meanwhile, women are constantly judged for what we do and who we sleep with. Not that my family has ever judged me. They just want me to be safe.
My friend Berenice offered me her place, but I don’t want to impose on her with all my baggage, literally and figuratively. Knowing my brothers, they had their lapdog, Miles, do a background check on her. I hate how intrusive he is. That’s why I keep so many of my relationships a secret—not that I’ve had many. I’ve tried to go on secret dates, and one time, I made it as far as sitting down at the table when my brothers’ security showed up. Other times, I was stood up. I can’t even access my dating apps, and I know it’s all Miles’s doing, of course, on my brothers’ orders, but still, he could say no. I’m not looking for my forever, but a girl has needs. I don’t discriminate on how my needs are met. Just as long as I get a great orgasm out of it.
Damn, I need a drink. I open the refrigerator and pull out my chilled wine and the slice of flan that I made a couple of days ago. I save all my calories for my vices—alcohol and dessert. I don’t have the healthiest eating habits, but at least I consume my fruit in the form of wine, so that’s something. I drink one glass after another until the bottle is empty and I feel the buzz. Looking around the apartment, I feel so small in such a large space. The penthouse doesn’t feel like a home. Its high ceilings, marble floors, and expensive view of the city scream wealth. It’s a glass-walled cage.
I grew up in a mansion, but it was never too big; if anything, it wasn’t big enough. I always had friends over, my mother loved hosting parties, and my brothers, well, they were in and out of the house all the time. My chest aches when I think of those times, of my mother. I’ve been such a shitty daughter ever since she was diagnosed over a year ago. Her diseaseis being managed with medication, and overall, she is well, but she has her bad days. I grab a second bottle; I need to numb these feelings because I know what comes next: self-loathing and fear.
I know exactly what will help. I grab my purse and look for a pill. One thing about me is that I’ve become an expert on how to hide my secrets; the occasional use of drugs is one. The first time I used, I was with my ex-boyfriend. If my family found out, they would lock me up and throw away the key. Rummaging through the contents of my purse, I don’t find it. Instead, I find a business card, one I thought I threw away weeks ago. I’m desperate, but am I this desperate? I don’t make the best decisions when I’m drunk, and I don’t think I’ll start today. I refill my wineglass and contemplate my next steps.
I hear a phone ringing in the distance; my head is pounding, my eyelids are heavy, and my mouth is dry. Shit, how much did I drink? The last thing I remember is finishing my slice of flan and calling Berenice. The phone keeps ringing. There are two empty bottles of wine on the living room floor, an empty plate, and the contents of my purse are scattered across the floor. Damn, I passed out on the couch. Again.
I follow the ringing and find my phone under the couch. It’s a local number, but I don’t recognize it. My throat is so dry; I search for water to quench my thirst. The ringing stops, but the same number calls back. Rushing to the kitchen, I grab a water from my refrigerator. I take a couple of sips and set the bottle on the counter. Feeling like crap doesn’t mean I need to sound like it.
“Hello,” I answer.
“He-hello, Ms. Veronica Kayde?” a woman asks.
“Yes, this is she,” I say with a chipper fake voice. The fake happy girl.
“This is Rebecca from R. Gomez Real Estate. Mr. Cam Villanueva told me to reach out to you and schedule a time to tour apartments.”
