Page 1 of The Game

PARTONE

“One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others.”

? Lewis Carroll

PROLOGUE

Alice Winters

June, 2022

Their beaming faces will always stand out from the imposing crowd. My eyes stay locked on theirs the entire time I am on that stage. Through Ellie’s valedictorian speech, through our principal’s droning on and on about what bright futures we have ahead of us. The sun streams down in golden rays, and the polyester black gown I wear traps the heat and makes sweat trickle down my spine. But none of that matters.

The moment my name is called, I stand on shaky legs, nervous as can be. If I trip and face plant, that will be the last memory this school has of me. So with my head held high, and a grin stretching my cheeks to a painful degree, my heels scrape across the rickety stage, and my sweaty hand clasps the school board president’s as he holds out my diploma. Squaring my shoulders to the crowd to allow for a photo op as I’ve been instructed, my eyes again find them; my twins, the men I love.

Jameson’s phone is turned sideways as he films, but behind the black rectangle, I can see his very own rare grin, one that gives him laugh lines only Tristan and I can bring out.

And then there’s Tristan, beaming proudly, a mischievous glint in his steely eyes as he raises a red horn and fires off the noise, the elderly couple next to them shooting them vehement glares. The laugh that bubbles up my chest is unhindered by my past, by the tragedy that struck my life not long ago. I wish my mother and step-father were here to see this day, to see that their efforts in raising me paid off. I’ve been accepted to the University of Washington for the psychology program, and with Ellie’s help writing my essays, I have enough in scholarships to pay for half of my tuition each year for four years.

Tristan and Jameson eagerly shoved money at me for schooling, but this was something I’d always intended to do on my own. I want something that is solely mine, something I will work for, something that will pave the way for me to help others in need.

The board member drops my hand as the next name is called, and I carefully pick my way over cords and around microphone stands until I am back to the risers behind the podium. Josie is next to me, holding out her fist. Bumping mine with hers, my heart flutters anew. This is really it. I’ve graduated high school. The world is at my feet. We can move, we can have our relationship become public as soon as we’re away from prying eyes and old money. Of all the bad I’ve endured in my life, it brought me to this point in time, and I cannot help but to be thankful for it.

Until my eyes sweep across the back of the crowd and land upon my father’s.

CHAPTER1

Jameson Stefanov

September, 2022

“Iwant to fucking kill you.”

“Try to control your impulses.”

“I don’t want to.”

My eyes slice across the dim office to Tristan’s as he listlessly flips his butterfly knife. My heart pounds an angry rhythm at the sight, at that damnable word and all the memories that flood along with it.

“Life is easier when you do,” I say with nonchalance, bringing the cool rim of the glass to my lips. Vodka sears and burns down my throat, but nothing is strong enough—not anymore. The hiss of his knife and the subsequent snap tells me he’s closed it. Perhaps I should be afraid of my twin, my flesh and blood; he’s just admitted he wants to kill me. But death sounds less ominous, now.

Death sounds like peace.

“Life is what we have to make of it, and you sit and do nothing—”

Standing so quickly my head spins, my chair scrapes across the floor, snags on the edge of the carpet, and crashes to the ground. The noise almost rivals the thunder that rattles the windows, and a flash of lightning brightens his furious face for less than a second, burning the image of an avenging angel into my retinas.

“You,” I seethe, tremors taking root in my chest and spreading like wildfire to my limbs. “You fucking killed him.That’swhy this has happened.”

Sneering, he shakes his head. The moment he puffs his chest, readying a retort, he deflates just as quickly. Anger seeps from my pores and leeches onto the cold marble floors, slithering away, looking for something to sink its teeth into, and I rest my palms on my messy desk, that familiar pain echoing in my very marrow.

“Sorry,” I grunt.

He snorts.

“Look at you, maturing.”

His voice holds no venom now, no anger; it is just as empty as I feel. When he speaks again, he sounds lost. Tristan’s also been the more emotional of us two. When our mother died before our ninth birthday, he’d screamed and ravaged our home, destroying everything in his wake. I’d held him by the throat, had tempered his fury, and he’d broken in my arms, shattered just like our mother’s favorite vase.

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