Page 11 of Never Fall for an Angel

I can see it in the ways his eyes follow her. The sneer underneath the perfectly poised smirk on his face. How she throws back another glass of champagne as if she can chase away the feeling of his hands on her.

My stomach is sick, knowing there’s nothing I can do. There’s no handbook for how to navigate life. How do you save your sister when you know she’s being abused? She doesn’t talk aboutit, but I see the bruises on her when she comes home sometimes. How I’ll catch them in a quiet, heated discussion. How she seems like just an empty shell now, covered in ice and thorns, compared to who she used to be.

I feel guilty. I’m disgusted that he could do that to her. Do that to our mother, who’s never done anything but stand by his side. I know that’s part of why Savannah keeps it quiet.

Telling someone would do nothing but piss Marcus Parker off. Our stepfather has more money than God and a history of violence. All the cops in LA are in his pocket, and all the guards work for him.

Telling someone is pointless.

So . . . she lives with the revulsion and the pain and the abuse because that’s the only choice women in our world have.

Whether you’re thirteen or nighty-two, the men in our society control everything, right down to the fake smiles we plaster on our faces.

“Mila? What are you doing?”

My spine stiffens from my spot on the ground, and I tear my eyes away from Savannah.

God, smite me dead right here.

Drew Marshall, my oldest sister Bailey’s boyfriend and soon to be fiancé—unfortunately . . .

“Misplace your personality?” I ask, and he snickers, his posse of limp dicks that follow him around like lost puppies smirking from behind him.

“You’re missing the party.”

I look around us. I wouldn’t call it a party. It’s Bailey’s graduation party, but Mom heard word the party and jumped at the chance to show off Marcus’s money. Every celebrity, wealthy socialite, or influencer in the vast LA area is here.

Boring.

“Bummer.”

“You know, Corbin was going to ask if you wanted to dance.” He nods to the guy beside him. I look him over. Lush hair. Blue eyes. Louis Vuitton shoes.

No, thank you.

I turn back to the Gameboy in my hand. Bailey gave it to me earlier today, and forgive me, but Mario is far more fascinating than any of Drew’s “friends”.

“I don’t dance.”

Drew has always gotten on my nerves, and I do everything I can to get on his. He’s condescending, using his father’s money to get whatever he wants. He treats Bailey like shit, though she refuses to see it. He cheats, he does drugs. He works for Marcus.

If you ask me, a squirrel would be a better boyfriend than Drew fucking Marshall.

“Come on, sweetheart. Put the game down and be a big girl.”

I grit my teeth. I’m not a fucking child who needs coaching. I’m twenty, for God’s sake.

“Hey, Drew?” I ask, my voice as sweet as arsenic.

“What?”

“Is it true that you’re struggling with erectile dysfunction? I overheard you and Bailey arguing the other night, and I was concerned.” I wasn’t concerned. I actually think it’s hilarious.

“You’re a mouthy little brat, you know that?” His friends are still chortling over my little E.D. comment. No shame to anyone who actually suffers from E.D. I just hate Drew, and I hope his dick falls off from gangrene sometime in the next five minutes.

I shrug at his comment. I have no desire to impress Drew Marshall. In fact, I would go as far as to say it’s the exact opposite.

Letting out a sigh, I slip to my bare feet. The cobblestone terrace is cool on my toes, and my lavender heels lay abandoned at the foot of the statue. I hate shoes, especially ones with heels.

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