Page 23 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

ADDISON

The Apostle Paul once wrote that‘All wrongdoing can be traced to an excessive attachment to material wealth.’This is the origin of the common sentiment that money is the root of all evil. That can’t be entirely true because some of the worst sins are committed by those with nothing left to lose without regard for financial gain. My one-way passport to hell was stamped out of fear and rage, not greed.

Greed is a character flaw most often attributed to either the very rich or the very poor, and always ascribed to thieves, but not all thieves are poor. Some men steal because they can, because they can take what isn’t theirs and there’s a certain thrill in that. For those who steal as a means to survive, greed isn’t the root of their sins. That burden is placed at the hands of the society we live in that takes from the needy to give to the rich, a grotesque inverse of Robin Hood’s legacy.

The Calloway family drowns in enough financial capital that they never need to work another day in their miserable lives and yet day-by-day, their massive fortune continues to grow. Instead of offering a hand to the needy, they waste that very fortune on obscene displays of wealth.

The Fire and Ice Ball is their annual midsummer event. Everyone who matters in the Hamptons makes an appearance not because of fidelity to the Calloways, but because of the fear of missing out, as if failing to make an appearance has the potential to lay waste to one’s social standing.

The ball would be the perfect opportunity to at least pretend to give a shit about those beneath them. It could serve as a form of public relations to host the event in the honor of charity, but those faux displays of caring are saved for another day. Charity at the hands of the rich is hardly ever charity. It’s a charade of caring passed off as a tax deduction, done out of greed. That’s not to say the events don’t raise money for the needy, only that there’s not a lot left once the people who run the nonprofits are paid.

And yet the charade of charity keeps the people from rebelling. It’s public relations 101. Attach your face to a charity and nobody dares question the absurd amount of wealth that’s hoarded.

The Calloways are the worst fucking people in the world. Generation after generation of depravity, inherited by the parents and passed down to the next hierarchy of children. Somehow Nick seems worse than his parents. Whereas his elders move in the shadows, hiding their terribleness behind a thinly-veiled public persona, Nick is the kind of devil to play games out in the open. He has no qualms about burning the world to the ground and then whispering in your ear that he’s the one that did it. It’s an almost admirable quality, that kind of straightforward honesty. If only it wasn’t buried in devilish behavior.

They say to beat the devil, you must first know his name. His name is Nick Calloway, and now it’s time to beat him at his own game. If he wants a war, he’s about to get one. By the time the night is over, when the sun begins to rise over the eastern skies, his world will be burned to the ground the same way mine was.

The most expensive dress I’ve ever worn was the dress I wore to my junior prom. It was pink, bedazzled from the shoulders to the brim, and most importantly it was second-hand. It cost a little over two-hundred dollars, and though it was beautiful, I felt the burden of guilt as if purchasing that very dress would send my mother spiraling into financial ruin. What I failed to understand back then was that that money would have been spent elsewhere regardless, most likely in a bar.

The red dress before me cost twenty times more than that, but Nick Calloway doesn’t care about the price tag still attached to the back. He doesn’t care much about anything from what I can gather. Outside of torturing me, I’m not sure what he cares about. Revenge is on his mind, always. Just one more thing we share in common.

He’ll be back any minute, and he’ll be expecting me to be ready. After he snuck me in through the back, he dropped me off in the pool house while he went inside to get dressed himself. He’s just as suspicious as I am that the Calloway matriarch won’t be happy to see me. It makes me question his motive for bringing me here, going so far as to threaten me in order to ensure I’d show.

Any competent gambler knows to never bet more than you’re willing to lose and that makes me incredibly dangerous because I have absolutely nothing to lose. I have no money, no material assets. I have no family, other than my mother, and she’s not in the best condition. She could pull through or she could die, and I’m still not sure which I prefer. Not sure which would better my life.

That’s a horrible thing to think, an unspoken thought that’ll never be uttered from my lips. She’s toxic like the chemicals sprinkled onto lawns to kill pests. Everything she touches withers and dies, dragged back into the dirt beneath the earth. If I stick around long enough, she’ll be the chains around my ankle pulling me into the dirt with her.

Love is chaotic and as certain as it is unbreakable. You can love someone and hate them at the same time. You can love them and wish them dead just as you’d wish them the will to fight to live another day. I love her like a child should love their mother and I hate her as a child shouldn’t.

Sometimes I wonder if Nick feels the same way about his own mother. He doesn’t talk about her much. Doesn’t talk much about anything other than vulgar declarations of lust colored in vengeful tongue.

It’s a dangerous game of charades. Neither of us are capable of being honest with each other. Hell, I think we both get off on it like some sick, perverted game. It’s the only explanation as to why I continue this charade. What I’m planning to do tonight is going to raise the stakes to a new level and it might finally be the thing that stamps my ticket to the grave.

I make quick work changing into the dress. Fitted and red, clinging to my body at the top and then billowing out at the bottom as the fabric drags against the floor in the back. It’s a beautiful dress and it’s absolutely unbefitting for me. I’d never choose to wear it, would never buy it with my own money. It’d take an entire year’s worth of work, and the particular shade of fiery red is too much of an attention-getter for my liking.

I reach for the earrings on the nightstand. They are white gold dangle earrings with diamonds set vertically down the length. They shimmer like the brightest of treasures, glistening underneath the light of the evening sun that passes through the window and yet they look like ice. They’re heavy on my ears, tugging at the lobes. I can’t remember the last time I wore earrings on my own accord. I position myself in front of the mirror, taking one long glance at myself, and cliche as it might sound, I don’t recognize the girl looking back at me.

It’s not because I’m depressed. I’ve been down that road and back. It’s no longer an illness I try to fight. It’s become encoded into my DNA as if I were born this way. Perhaps I was.

It’s not because I look different. The hoodies and jeans I’m accustomed to wearing–even in the blistering heat of the summer–are pooled on the floor beside me. I can stand here in this dress with these jewels and look like a princess, but I know better. Everyone else will too. They’ll see right through me, right to the dark heart that’s been iced cold.

The true reason I don’t recognize myself is that I’m hollow, nothing more than the shell of a woman like a ghost walking through the world she used to live in. I don’t see blood-coated revenge in my eyes, nor do I see the dark blackness of sin. I’m just empty. Maybe that’s why I can do the things I do. The most dangerous thing in this entire ugly world is a woman with nothing left to lose.

I sigh as I stroke my hands down the length of my sides, pausing for a moment to flatten my palm over my stomach. If only my father could see me like this, beautiful and worthy and absolutely fucking dead in the eyes.

The front door swings open and my stomach sinks.

It’s showtime.

I cock my head to the left to greet Nick with a forced smile. He’s the devil in a devilish disguise, a strong jawline fostering an impossibly wicked grin. He’s dressed in a white suit with a red tie that matches my dress. In his hands, he holds a jewelry box rectangular in shape and outfitted with gems etched into the top. The box itself looks priceless so I can’t imagine what’s inside the damn thing.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says quietly, his devious grin unwavering. “I had to grab this for you.”

And then he opens the box and the diamond necklace inside makes the heart of the ocean pale in comparison. The diamonds set into stone are laid out like their namesake, even more sparkling and blinding than the heavy chains hanging from my ears. If this were any other world, if we were any other place, if he was anyone else, anyone other than the person that almost killed my mother, it’d be a gesture out of a romance film. The scene in the movie where the prince professes his love for the princess, gifting her with a family heirloom to prove his love.

This isn’t a love story. It’s a story that started so long ago that’s become something else entirely, a narrative built upon mutual hatred and lust that’s barreling towards a bittersweet ending of revenge.

He collects the necklace from the box, draping the jewelry over strong fingers and then he approaches me, his lips flat and his eyes focused downwards. The touch of his fingers against the back of my neck should be enough to repulse me but I’m either too into character or I’m past the point of a twisted mind. And in that mind, I see him doing more than bestowing jewels upon me. I see him pinning me up against the window and fucking me so hard that the walls rattle and shake.

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