Page 24 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

His voice cuts through the fantasy, “I have to be honest. I’m surprised you showed up today.”

“You didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“You’re not exactly the type of girl that listens.” He takes a measured step backwards, almost as if he’s taking one last glance at me to make sure I’m suitable to be shown off to the people waiting outside.

“Just as you’re not the type to let things go.” I reach for his hand, not sure what good that’s going to do. “What is the point of this, Nick?”

“We both know that you have something up your sleeve. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m trying to figure it out and I can’t, and let me tell you, as painful as it is to admit, it’s got me excited.” He grabs me by the wrist and pushes me backwards against the wall. If he’s not careful, someone may peek inside the window and catch us like this. “What exactly are you planning, Addison?”

“I wouldn’t want you to prematurely shoot your load, so why don’t you just be patient?”

“Fair enough.” He holds me in place for a second longer before breaking away and shoving one hand into his trousers. “Are you ready for the show?”

I want to ask the same, but I refrain. When it comes to war, it’s imperative to never show your cards to your opponent. The road to hell is paved not with good intentions, but with deceit. If he catches wind that I’m actually up to something, he’ll be prepared to counter with a strike of his own and I’ve seen with my own eyes exactly what he’s capable of. He might not have stuck a knife into my mom’s chest, but he lit the match and it’s just the same.

Maybe he thinks that makes us even, but he’d be wrong. I did what I did for a lot of different reasons, but none of that happened out of malice. He most certainly cannot say the same.

He pulls open the front door and gestures for me to exit first. I swallow nervously as I approach first and then step past him. I don’t like it when he’s behind me, nothing more than a shadow or a ghost hot on my tail.

The guests have begun to arrive. In anyone else’s eyes, the crowd would be a sight to behold. A collection of who’s who in the Hamptons. To me, it’s nothing but a flock of vultures circling the dead from the sky. They feast upon the carcasses of those they’ve had to step on to live their opulent lives of excess. Nobody here is a friend to anyone else. The rules of the social hierarchy dictate that if one of them should fall, it’s in their best interest to take advantage before the body’s even cold.

Everyone’s dressed in black, white, and red, not daring to disobey the strict dress code. When I think of fire and ice, my mind goes straight for the opposing dichotomy of angels and demons, but everyone here is evil. There’s no good left in the world, and there was never good in the Hamptons anyways.

The manicured bushes that line the other side of the pool are pristine and well-taken care of, but even after all these years, I still see the blood splattered across the branches. My gaze hovers a little too long, lost in the memory of the look in Carter’s eyes as I pulled the knife from his gut, to the point that I lose track of the world and bump into a tall-statured man. His ice-filled drink splashes over my dress, the stabbing coldness hitting like a shock to the system as the dress absorbs the liquid, painting over my hot skin.

“Watch your step,” Nick grinds out.

And I think he’s talking to me at first but he’s not. He’s burning hot, illogically protective. The man before me, older and bigger, doesn’t say much of anything. It’s like he’s bowing down to the prince of the Hamptons, mumbling something under his breath as he makes an about face on his feet to head back inside.

Whatever game Nick is playing, I can’t quite figure it out. I know I have to be prepared for anything. There’s a lull between the two of us, each trying to wait until the other lets down their guard before we make our moves. He makes sure to stay somewhat distant from me as we walk into the manor through open French doors.

A tall man stands beside the stairs that tower into the second floor on either side of the foyer. He’s dressed in all white and could be mistaken for a guest if it weren’t for the red name tag pinned into his shirt. Jake. He smiles as he offers Nick and I drinks that are hoisted upon a serving dish.

I take a cocktail into my hands, admiring the artwork. The drink is layered, perfectly manicured like everything else in the house. It’s white on the bottom, milky and sweet, and then layered with something the shade of burning red on top. The commitment to the theme is admirably tacky.

As I raise the drink to my lips, for that first sweet sip to assuage my nerves, I take notice that all eyes are on me. The people aren’t even subtle about it, their gaze locking with mine for a beat too long at a time.

I’m used to the staring. That’s nothing new. I have a reputation around these parts. People are wary and suspicious of me and that’s naturally going to be heightened when I’m touring through the house of the boy I killed all those years ago. As fragile as memories can be, that’s the kind of thing people don’t forget. The disdain and fear linger far after the crime is committed.

I swallow the drink in my hand in one go, taking a momentary pause in place, and then I hold onto the empty glass in my sweaty palm as Nick leads me into the ballroom. The sweetness of the drink lingers on merging with a sour aftertaste.

The room is filled to the brim, packed like a press conference. It feels more akin to a school of lambs crowded for slaughter. My chest tightens. By habit or self-preservation, my eyes search for the nearest exit. To the left, about twenty heads away, a light breeze chokes through a door that’s cracked open, leading out to the garden. At the front of the room is a podium situated on stage with a microphone.

“Is this a party or a press conference?” I question. “You rich people are weird.”

“My mother likes to hear herself speak.” He shrugs with nervous apathy. “I guess it runs in the family.”

I cock my head toward him, with the pervasive feeling that something is amiss. My mouth drops open to speak, but it’s too late. He offers me a sly wink before pushing forward, making his way through the crowd.

It’s time for fight or flight and I’m too shaken to make a decision, losing precious time as he ascends the stage and takes to the podium. For the first time since we arrived, all attention isn’t on me. It’s on him. The star of the show, but I’m wishing all eyes were on me because at least I can control the narrative. There’s no telling the stories he’s going to weave on that stage.

It’s much too late to leave without making a scene, so I ground my feet to the floor and ready myself for the storm. This was supposed to be my day for revenge and there’s a morbid feeling in my gut that I’m about to take another hit.

Thunk. Thunk.The sounds echo off the walls, the tapping of Nick’s finger against the microphone to ensure it’s on.

He clears his throat before he speaks, “Good evening, everyone. I’m sure my mother will be here to greet you all soon. It’s not like her to be so late.” He grips the edges of the podium and swallows harshly. “For those of you that don’t know me, I am Nick Calloway.”

Everyone in this room knows him. The introduction isn’t necessary. For whatever reason, he’s nervous. The evidence is in his eyes and the way he’s grounding himself to the podium, holding on for dear life. It’s an unusual sight that’d give me great pleasure if my mind wasn’t already spinning.

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