Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I’m halfway across the room when I feel it. Eyes on the back of my head as sharp as a laser. I turn and see what my gut already told me was there. Braken Frost stares at me from across the room, a shadow to his strong, angular face. His brown hair is neatly combed and gelled back, and he holds onto his black suit jacket, his white dress shirt practically molded to his muscular frame. His facial hair is neatly trimmed, and his tattoo I recognize so well on his neck dips into the unbuttoned top of his button-up.
Second son of the Frost family and famous hotel entrepreneur, Braken is no stranger to fame and wealth. The editorials featuring his smiling face as he stands in the lobby of one of his new Seattle-area hotels are sleek, polished, and Photoshopped to hell. Here, on the ashes of my brother, he’s rugged, masculine, and much more dangerous.
Because Mason died on Frost soil.
Flames rush through my veins when he offers me a slight nod. How dare he show his face here? Someone from his family could have been the one to kill Mason. Papa said so himself when he told us to watch our backs. We don’t know who to trust anymore, and even so, the Frosts aren’t at the top of my list.
And if Papa discovers how Braken and I first met… he’ll kill him right here on the spot.
Since I can’t flick him off without incurring my father’s wrath, I do the only thing I can. I ignore him, turn around, and walk away.
Jescie greets me with a raise of her glass and a forced smile. “Is it time?”
“Unfortunately,” I answer with a heavy sigh.
I snatch the wine glass from her before she can stop me. My youngest sister doesn’t protest as I down it in two gulps. We both need a little extra liquid courage to get through this.
“I was jealous you got away,” Jescie admits. “I mean… I knew I’d miss you, and I was happy for you, but I was also green with envy. You did something I’d never have the courage to do.”
“All it did was piss off Papa. Look at where I’m at now. Still here.”
“Where did you go?”
“Not far enough away, apparently,” I mutter.
She glances over at Papa. “Are you staying?”
“I don’t think I have much of a choice now that Mason is dead.”
The eulogies go in order from youngest to oldest. The room is so packed there’s no room to sit, let alone breathe. Jescie stands there, a portrait of our deceased mother with her wavy, shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes that don’t waver as she tells stories of Mason from childhood. Sable goes next, recounting the time Mason burst into her room and found her halfway through his birthday cake, which she then scarfed down before Mason could get a bite. The story makes the crowd chuckle, but Sable’s smile is far from genuine. She dabs at the tears at the corner of her eye and steps down, long black ponytail bouncing in time with her Louboutins.
Now it’s my turn.
Standing in front of the crowd is nearly paralyzing. Every pair of eyes is on me, but I can’t tell which are friends and which are foes. Most likely none of them. Being a Godwin is a dangerous game where the pieces always shift before there’s time to complete the puzzle. Being Hector Godwin’s daughter means I should hold almost all the cards, but there could always be someone waiting to put a target on my back.
Just like they did with Mason.
“I’m not sure why we’re here when Mason would much prefer to be at a Seattle Mariners game,” I joke to start my tribute.
The room laughs and resounds with agreement, but my mouth runs dry. I wish it were just a joke. But Mason spent his life at the Seattle Mariners’ stadium, all the way up to his dying moments.
The rest of the eulogy is a blur, mostly because of the tears that line my eyes and voice. Between the stories of us accidentally breaking our father’s car window during baseball practice to us losing our voices from screaming during the many baseball games he dragged me to, it feels like Mason is alive in the stories I tell. How am I supposed to let him go?
I finish with a quiet, “Love you, Mason,” and take my seat, staring at the ceiling lights until my eyes burn.
I can’t cry in front of all these people. Any move I make as a Godwin is plastered all over social media before I can blink. Word gets around when your family is powerful and well-connected. Mason’s death was front page on Page Six before his car even finished smoldering. The last thing I want is my red-splotchy face posted above some disgusting caption reading “DEVASTATED! Socialite Fiora Godwin cries at her brother’s funeral and looks good doing it.”