Page 198 of Fatality
“So, Miss Laordie,” one of the governors—or whoever the hell he is—begins, “your father tells me you'll be his heiress. His successor.”
I freeze, my fork halfway bent.
Did he—? What?
I recompose myself.
“Oh, he did?” I crack my neck. “Well, that's quite the shocking announcement, considering they never cared enough to know how I was doing.”
The silence that follows is heavier than the collar around my neck.
The man clears his throat and lets out a nervous laugh.
“Well, that's...”
“A joke,” my father cuts in with a laugh, patting the governor on the shoulder. “A child's little tantrum at the dinner table, really. My daughter has always loved making them.”
He shoots me a look that says, Quiet and behave or you're done.
I roll my eyes and stab into my chocolate-lemon-strawberry cake—Who the fuck even eats a cake like that anyway?
A few minutes later, I watch my father leave with several of the men, heading toward his private office.
This fucking penthouse is a mansion spread across three floors, bigger than an entire building in the Lower Layers.
My mother is about to open her mouth when I stand.
“Don’t bother, Mother.” I held up a hand silencing her.
I turn and head toward the bathroom. I need to pee... and I need to get out of this dress.
As I round the corner, I hear laughter. I don't pay it any mind, probably cigars and politics.
Everything I hate.
“You know, Adrien,” one of the men says, “they reopened the case of your son.”
I freeze.
A shiver tears through my body, my heart stops beating completely.
What the fuck? Why would they reopen Kyle’s death? It doesn’t make any sense after eleven years.
“They found the car which hit him, instead of your daughter...” The voice trails off.
“Speak or get out.” My father's voice cuts through the room, completely devoid of emotion, assuming he ever had any to begin with.
“It wasn't an accident,” A brief pause, intense, and way too long “From the Lower Layers.”
CHAPTER 42
Evren
The Death Of Peace Of Mind - Bad Omens
The Industrial Belt of the Lower Layers never sleeps. It breathes through smokestacks, exhale steam from the rusted vents and trembles beneath the weight of machines older than people working on them.
Endless factories stretch, their concrete walls stained black from the decades of heat and exhaust, that is probably one of the best things about the Lower Layers.
