Page 10 of Twisted Kings

“You can use the laptop I left in your room. It has filters in place to prevent access to unauthorized sites.”

“You do know I’m legally an adult, right?”

Dad’s lip curled up in disgust. “When you learn to do as you’re told, boy, then I’ll treat you as an adult. In the meantime, the only people you’ll be talking to are people vetted by me.”

“And Camilla?” I nearly laughed but managed to bite my lip just in time.

“Unfortunately, thanks to your monumental fuck-up, that’s no longer an option.” He ground his teeth.

From the few news stories I’d had a chance to scan, John Bale-Lyon was on the warpath, accusing me of taking advantage of his sweet daughter. It was fucking laughable. He and Camilla both knew the whole engagement charade was a sham, one that I had never agreed to willingly.

No doubt Camilla would be popping up in the society pages for the next few weeks, papped on the arms of every eligible bachelor in the Northern Hemisphere to prove it wasn’t her fault I’d had to seek sex elsewhere.

“The official line we’re trotting out is sex addiction.”

My mouth fell open. “Huh?”

“Yes, Malcolm thinks it’s our best chance of rehabilitating your reputation. We say you are a sex addict. You’ve been struggling for years but fell off the wagon thanks to the influence of your friend.”

“I’m 21. It’s perfectly normal to have lots of sex at my age,” I pointed out. “Pretty sure you were banging everything with a pulse when you were 21.”And still are, I added silently.

He slammed his hand down on his desk in fury. “The only person you should have been fucking was Camilla!”

“There weren’t enough drugs on hand to make me go there,” I pointed out. Dominic snorted, but covered it with a cough. Dad threw him a scathing look, although I noted he didn’t disagree.

Camilla was a troll. Even Dad wasn’t interested, and he was not at all discerning.

“You’ll stay out of sight over the holiday under the guise of completing a sex addicts’ program at an exclusive clinic in Switzerland. Then, in the New Year, we’ll run a story about how you’ve seen the error of your ways and rediscovered your faith.”

“Faith? In what, exactly?”

“God, Cassian.” I burst out laughing in shock. Dad liked to pretend he was a Christian, typically around the holidays when being photographed at church services made for good optics. In reality, the only deity he worshiped had horns and a tail.

“Good luck with that.” I rolled my eyes and yawned.

“I suggest you take me seriously, Cassian, or I’ll have no choice but to send your mother away for an extended stay.”

That hit home. The bastard wasn’t fucking around. He’d like nothing better than to get rid of Mom for a few weeks or months.

The press loved his tragic backstory of a sick wife and how he’d fought hard to get her the best possible treatment for her mental health issues. The fucker was even the patron of several mental health charities, which was fucking laughable, given all my mom’s problems related to his mistreatment.

“Fine.” I gritted my teeth and pasted a smile on my face. “Quiet Christmas, no socializing. Got it.”

Dad relaxed in his chair. “Good. I’m pleased we’re on the same page. Now get out of my sight while I clean up this mess you’ve caused. I have a meeting with the PM this afternoon, so I’ll be gone this evening.”

“No family meal?” I pretended to look disappointed. Dad’s eyes narrowed, knowing full well I was taking the piss.

“Careful, Cassian. One phone call is all it will take.” The smug smile on his face told me he wasn’t messing about.

“Enjoy your night in London.”Fucking whatever unlucky woman is your current floozy.

I stood and left, eager to get the hell out of his presence and into my personal space, where I could relax my guard. Dominiccould have installed cameras in my suite since I last came home, but I doubted it. He wasn’t technically minded. Dad employed him for his brawn, not his brain.

Once I’d locked my bedroom door, I headed into the bathroom and removed the ceiling vent above the shower. The burner phone I stashed in there, protected in a ziplock bag, was dead, but it didn’t take long to charge enough for me to message our group chat.

Me: Dad has my phone. Any messages from it are not me.

Milo: OK. We need to talk.

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