Cruel King (Royal Elite #0) by Rina Kent

“I never had to worry about food before either,” I say after swallowing another mouthful of Sarah’s cheesecake.

Screw Victoria for insinuating that Mum didn’t take care of me. She was both my mother and my father rolled into one.

I admired her for raising me on her own and being everything I needed.

When I first showed interest in sketching, Mum stayed up all night modelling for me. When I was having a bad day, she’d take me on long drives, just the two of us.

Mum was my world while Daddy dearest lived with his real family.

“It’s fine if you did,” Victoria continues.

“We didn’t. Mum worked for a living you know. She didn’t leech off her lord husband.”

Victoria’s upper lip twitches and I smile to myself.

Small victories.

“Astrid Elizabeth Clifford.”

I wince at Dad’s deadly calm tone. If he calls me by my full name, then he disapproves.

Not that he ever really approves of me.

My fork clinks against the plate as I slightly lift my head to meet his punishing green eyes. The definite proof that I’m his daughter. That his genes collaborated in making mine.

I’ll be eighteen a few weeks from now, but I still feel as small as the seven-year-old kid who begged him to stay. The stupid little kid who painted him as my first kindergarten picture.

Henry Clifford is still strong and well-built for someone in his mid-forties. His dark brown hair, another something I inherited, is slicked back, highlighting his strong forehead and the straight, aristocratic nose.

His pressed navy suit clings to his body as if he were born into one. I certainly don’t remember him out of it.

When I was a kid, I used to feel out of my skin with joy whenever he showed up.

Now, he just intimidates me.

I don’t know when he stopped being my dad and started being his title.

Victoria places her hand on top of Dad’s with a sickeningly sweet smile that’s causing me diabetes. “It’s okay, darling. She’ll come around.”

Kill me now.

“Morning!” A breeze of strong cherry perfume — that must’ve cost another fortune — brushes past me.

Nicole kisses her mum and my dad on their cheeks before flopping on Dad’s left.

We’re wearing the same school uniform, but she somehow makes it look more elegant with a pressed blue skirt and the shirt’s cuffs rolled over RES’s jacket. Her blonde hair falls in waves to the middle of her back as if every strand was taken care of separately.

Of course, unlike me, Nicole doesn’t eat like a pig. She takes her time to cut and shew while conversing with the adults about her upcoming tests and school activities.

Hanging my head, I push around the remnants of my cheesecake, not bothering to eat.

To say I feel like a stranger would be an understatement. Victoria and Nicole always snatch Dad’s attention while I sit here as unnoticeable as a wallflower.

I try to ignore the stab of hurt when Dad offers Nicole a smile he never gives me anymore. All I get from him are drawn brows and disapproving stares.

“Maybe you can study math with Astrid,” Victoria suggests in an awfully cheerful mode. “I’m sure Nicole can help you get better results.”

I would rather choke on my own vomit, thank you very much.

“If you weren’t so stubborn to refuse a private tutor, maybe you wouldn’t have catastrophic results.” The edge of disapproval in Dad’s voice is like a knife to my heart. “Why can’t you be like Nicole?”

“Why don’t you adopt her and spare us all the misery?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it came out, anyway.

The clinks and clanks of utensils stop as silence stakes claim in the dining area. Even the kitchen staff stop mid-stride.

My ears heat with both shame and anger.

Maybe my own dad should stop comparing me to his perfect stepdaughter.

Maybe he should’ve left me alone after Mum died.

At least then, I wouldn’t feel like a stranger whenever I’m around his family.

I snatch my backpack and jump out of my seat before Dad can burn me some more.

Behind me, Victoria tells him, “Astrid is just going to be Astrid.”

I wipe a tear from my eye as I make my way out.

I miss you so much, Mum.





Sketchpad in hand, I wait near the entrance of the park for Dan to pick me up.

Since it’s early, only joggers come in and out of the park. I like watching the exertion and how much they work for what they want.

Capturing those moments have been my passion.

Or rather. Was.

All the charcoal lines blur into something unrecognisable. The slight tremor in my hand hasn’t subsided since the accident. For two and a half months, I haven’t been able to sketch anything properly.

No matter how much I try, it isn’t there anymore.

The magic disappeared.

The doctor said there’s no physical damage and that all of this is mental. The shrink said that I could be resisting something or that I’m under a lot of stress. My trauma is translating into my ability to create art.

I wanted to tell him that I have no trauma. That I’m going to find who ran me over and teach them a lesson and everything will be totally cool. However, Dr Edmonds is psychoanalysing me a lot already.

The last thing I need is for him to suggest some psyche ward to Dad.