Page 1 of Their Cruel Love

1

Phoebe

I twirl the champagne goblet against the light, cynically watching bubbles rise in the gold. I’m hoping the Thames will look a little cleaner viewed through vintage alcohol.

“You really want to try kink?” I ask. “I can think of a safer way than some rando onwhiplror whatever you call it. People have been murdered that way.”

Milli scoffs and leans forward. We’ve turned the curvy blue sofa around to face outward. A cool breeze feathers her long blond hair.

I smile. The girl is beautiful in a stunning, beyond the vagaries of history and fashion kind of way. Leonardo da Vinci would’ve fought to paint her. I cannot ever match it. “Sometimes I wonder why you even stick with me.” It’s a truth, and I lower the goblet until it rests on the curled edge ofthe sofa cushion. The pastel-blue upholstery is soft against the sides of my fingers. Moisture from the glass darkens it.

“Idiot,” she says quietly. “You know we’re like this…” She holds up her hand, presses two fingers against each other. “And it’s because we’re both nutters. I like you. You like me. Some friendships just are.”

“Hmph.” I snuggle lower at an angle, my upper back smooshing the sofa, and stare at the birds gliding in the sky. “So?—”

“I guess. Sure. What’s this better way to get myself kinked up?”

I snort. Kinked up is, probably, a made-up phrase. “I have this weird family secret. My father was a founding member of this conglomerate of uber-rich assholes who made this kink club they call the CNC Fraternity. I can get you into a party. Well, I’m fairly certain I can.”

Father died years ago, but I’d come across some startling photos and BDSM gear in the one locked room he’d dedicated to this obsession of his. I recognized some of the people in the photos. Sir Gregory, for one. I’d also found the accounts and the yearly donations Father had made, before my step-mother commandeered everything, including most of my inheritance.

Not that I gave a shit about the money.

I’d almost needed therapy when I found out, but he’d never been that present as a father. It was like finding out Santa wasn’t real—an expected destruction of a fantasy.

“Sure. Okay. Do it. I signed that modeling contract, and I’d rather get this out of my system before I get famous.”

I sit up and scream a little, staring. “You what the fuck?”

“Yes! I did it! Now pour me some more champers and tell me more about your kinky-fuckery dad because that is somekind of fucked-up.” She waves dismissively. “Even if I am just as fucked up. I wonder if it’s inherited?” A sly grin appears.

“Me? Shut up!” I eyeroll. A heated blush rains in for a few seconds before I shrug it off and grab the bottle from the ice bucket. “To the future!”

As she slides lower to match my position on the sofa, her white dress rides up her thighs. We raise our glasses to the gray-blue, Chelsea Harbor sky.

“To the future! And kinky fuckery!” I chug down the whole goblet, drowning something, as I do. The prospect of Milli leaving me alone to face the world, maybe?

Then I bounce off the sofa and do a one-hand assisted leap onto the railing, turning to face her as I stand, then I step backward and drop into space. I fall but I’m watching for that railing. I know where it is. My hands catch the railing as I pass it…and one handalmostslips off. That’snotplanned. It’s a whole scary millisecond, but I hang on and pull myself higher.

Milli screams, and I pop my head above the railing until my eyes show. I haul myself back onto the balcony and do a perfect ten dismount, a bow, and a grin.

“You bitch.” She’s patting at her chest, mouth wide. “You scared the ever-loving… Why? That was scary! How did youdothat?”

“I was celebrating! And I did gymnastics. Remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Next time, I’m pushing you off. I had a heart attack!”

Me, too. Fucking gymnastics classes were too long ago.

The aim was topretendto drop past the railing, not to actually fall into the Thames and kill myself.

After I manage to get in contact with one of Father’s old friends and an invite comes for her, the days flick by, and the date of the CNC event arrives.

“Take care,” I tell her, standing on the broad front steps of the apartment block.

“I will.” She blows me a kiss goodbye.

I do the same, then I throw my arms around her and squeeze. “Come back intact. I need you to pay the rent.” I don’t, not really. I’m not in any need of her money since I own the apartment. It was the one thing I kept. In some ways I don’t blame my stepmother. She thinks I killed her son, and I guess I did, by proxy. I did very much want him dead.

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