Page 1 of Heartless Vows

Chapter 1

Aurora Achilles

When my parents’ screamingno longer echoes down the hall, I confirm the funds hit my account with a glance, exit out of the browser, maximize my secondary browser with my college work already loaded, and pull my headphones over my ears. My father slams the door to his study. A few seconds later, my phone lights up and vibrates beside my keyboard. As the lock on my door rattles, I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out my over-the-counter medicines before standing and grabbing my prescription off my bookcase.

My mother scoffs from the doorway.

“What’s the point of hiding your medicine? It’s not like your brother can wander through the house, and even if he could, he wouldn’t dare set foot in your room,” she says.

I bite my tongue and systematically take out one pill from each bottle as she watches.

It’s her fault my eight-year-old brother tiptoes around like a ghost in his own home. Anger writhes in my veins, but fear keeps me silent.

My stomach sours as she steps into my room and fills it with her cloying perfume, but I ignore the fear skittering down my spine and pivot to show her the cluster of pills on my palm.

She nods. I pop them into my mouth, take a swig of water, and swallow before showing her my empty tongue.

“Give me the bottle,” she demands with an impatient flick of her wrist toward the bookshelf.

I place my water back onto my desk and pass the prescription to her. She pops it open and sneers before closing and tossing it back at me.

“Are you turning work in late? Didn’t you graduate last week?”

I follow her glare to my computer screen and swallow my apprehension before shaking my head.

“I started college courses last semester,” I partially lie.

She doesn’t need to know I forged her and my father’s approval for college classes several years ago. Graduating from high school on time is a farce, too, since I finished all my classes long ago, but delaying my diploma is probably the only reason I’m still under their roof.

I can’t leave. Not yet. Not when Tristan is still so young and vulnerable.

“What major?” she asks as she leans down and squints at my screen.

“Business administration,” I respond.

It’s another half lie. I earned my associate degree in business administration early last year, but only because it looks good on a résumé. My passion lies in technology, and even though what they teach in college is insultingly basic compared to what I’ve learned on my own, having the official paperwork under my name will further my plan for freedom. I’m only a few credits away from my bachelor’s degree in computer science.

My mother huffs and turns toward the door.

“Fine, but you’d better not let your classes interfere with real life. We’re going to have a busy summer.”

Her threat rings through my ears as she slams the door behind her. I push my headphones down around my neck and rub the ache between my eyes as she locks my door and stomps down the hallway.

When she pauses next to Tristan’s door, I stiffen and grab my phone. With trembling fingers, I open my parental app and monitor the sounds in his room until she walks away.

I sigh in relief and close my eyes for a moment. When my chest finally stops aching, I send Tristan a heart through text and smile when he responds with a vomit emoji. After a quickgo to sleepmessage, I set down my phone, submit my work to my professor, and minimize the page.

My phone vibrates. Dozens of z’s fill my screen. I chuckle, shake my head, and engage downtime on his computer, but extend his access on his phone for an extra fifteen minutes. I pull up a separate browser on my computer but wait until the faint sound of rushing water comes through my phone speaker before filtering the offers waiting in my inbox.

I’m no longer desperate for money, but the more I have in my account, the less I worry, so I’ll continue snagging the higher paying, quick turnaround online jobs as often as I can.

Less than five minutes later, Tristan’s shower turns off. I sigh and accept an offer before picking up my phone and sending my brother a toothbrush emoji. A few seconds later, he sends me a blurry photo of his reflection in his bathroom mirror with white foam dripping down his chin.

I blink back unexpected tears and breathe through the sudden lump in my throat.

He’s growing too fast. I upload the photo to my hidden cloud but delete it from our conversation—and every official record—before sending him a thumbs up.

Two minutes later, he wishes me goodnight. I end our conversation with a kiss emoji. My app alerts me as he opens his favorite game on his phone.

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