Page 3 of My Forever Sin

“What are you sorry for?” I lean back in my chair, placing the freshly rolled joint from Blake between my teeth.

“That we haven’t made a better effort to find her.” He leans his elbows on his thighs, resting before his next set of bicep curls.

Blake and Asher are the only people I’ve ever been able to rely on, and we’ve been inseparable since nursery. They would give their life for me, and I for them. Blake’s mother passed away from cancer when he was three years old and he was adopted by the Bamford’s, so they grew up together, but they couldn’t be more yin and yang.

“You’ve done everything you could.” I light the joint, buzzing for that euphoric state at the topic of the love of my life. “I’ll never give up trying to find her, though. I just need to figure out how I can get out of this town without being dragged right back.”

I’ve made many attempts at taking my Audi out, but every time I do, there’s a black SUV waiting like it knew exactly where to cut my path. Her twenty-third birthday just passed, and the only thing I could think about was if she was alive to celebrate it, and if she was, how she celebrated it.

She has to be alive. Right?

Asher’s baby blue eyes drop to the ground. “She’ll be back.” He doesn’t sound sure.

Swallowing down a painful lump in my throat, I inhale a frantic drag, my knee bouncing as I blow the smoke out.

Fuck.

2

Kain

5 Years Ago - Aged 18

“The church may not stand much longer if we can’t give them what they want.”

My ears twitch as I strain to listen to the conversation happening beside me, leaning against the wall amongst a sea of expensive crimson suits and dresses.

“It’s a shame, it would truly be a loss to the town. The people here are so devoted. If the church crumbles, we do too.”

“They said it wouldn’t be long. Soon, they’ll have what they need to keep it going…” The conversation trails off as the pair of men perish into the crowd.

Two things I hate—crowds, and this godforsaken colour. It represents everything that’s wrong with Blackcastle’s system. A system that was established by generations of Westbrook men, and at the top of the food chain is my father. The most successful of them all. Back in the sixteen hundreds there were only a few residents following the word of God; nowadays, the entire town is raised on Christianity.

A waitress—dressed in the same colour as everyone else, though her garments have been made of the cheapest material to distinguish her from the rest of them—breezes past me before she halts and takes a few steps backwards.

Spinning and gracefully lifting a flute of champagne off the silver platter, she gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and stretches it towards me. “Champagne, Mr Westbrook?”

I glance at the rose-coloured liquid. “No, thanks.” I flash her a tight-lipped smile.

She returns on her path, revealing the family crest embroidered in black on the back of her polyester shirt. Three circles weaving through each other with a cross tangled into it. A blatant statement from my father to show the claim he has on our staff. A reminder that he owns this town and everyone in it. It has nothing to do with being a proud leader as he likes to claim.

This is my first Blackcastle ball where I’ve been offered an alcoholic drink since turning eighteen at the start of the year. Unfortunately, neither Dorrian nor my father forgot about my birthday. In fact, Father tried his hardest to make me attend the Sunday church service, but I would’ve sooner let them chop my hand off than conform to that family tradition—a rebaptism in front of the entire town. I had no choice when I was born, but I do now.

I returned home to a shiny, electric blue Audi sitting in the drive with a bow stuck on the bonnet, courtesy of my prick of a brother. Inevitably, my disappearance for the day ended in far too many bruises than I could count—the Holy punishment from God himself for skipping my baptism.

Still, it was worth it for the warehouse, Jordie, Asher, and Blake. And I have to admit the car has become an escape of sorts. Travelling to and from our warehouse has been easier than before.

I search the crowds of the town council—men and women all dressed to the nines, pretending they’re something to be worshipped. Pretending they don’t exploit Blackcastle’s residents for their own luxuries. A town of only a few hundred is easy to use as leverage.

And I can’t find the one person I’m dying to see.

Candelabra’s hang in between every equally distanced floor-to-ceiling window that’s draped with thick, crimson curtains, casting the burnished ballroom in a satin, yellowy glow. The chandeliers are off, only reflecting the light of the candles as they sparkle above us while silks drape off the high-reaching ceilings. Dry, autumn leaves litter the main floor that staff scramble to sweep up whenever a single one blows in through the open courtyard doors.

Our mansion looks more like a medieval castle—which, I suppose it is. It was built when the town was founded millennia ago and it’s been passed down from generation to generation of the Westbrook family. Dorrian—my older, and only, sibling—is the one to own it next. Everything that’s related to the family legacy will be inherited by him, then by his future arranged marriage offspring. Another one of the customs I’ve been subjected to.

I scoff, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all.

“My son. Here he is!” My father’s voice booms from the staircase behind me causing every muscle in my body to stiffen.