Ruthless Empire (Royal Elite #6) by Rina Kent

When I go back to Sebastian’s house that late afternoon, it’s buzzing with energy.

Assistant, PR team, spokesman team, publicist, secretary, and even the driver. They’re all there, running about and making calls and turning the house into an elections’ hall.

Farewell, my quiet home. Mum kept the house, but it’s not like I’ll go live there on my own.

I wouldn’t anyway. Even with the number of people who are here on a daily basis, being here is worth it.

We’re under the same roof. My chaos and I.

“Oh, Cole.” Mum fusses with some plates at the kitchen counter. “Be a darling and give me that plate.”

“I’ll carry them for you.”

“Nonsense.” She motions at an empty place on her arm. “Just put it there and go have fun.”

“I can help, Mum.”

“I’ll get one thing straight with you, just like I did with Silver. I don’t need your help,” she says in a half-stern, half-jokey tone. “When I do, I’ll ask for it.”

I put the plate where she motioned. Each of Sebastian’s team members grab one and thank her with big smiles on their faces. It’s like they forgot they should eat.

Sebastian comes down the hall and helps her, then places a kiss on her temple. They smile at each other, like any reserved old couple would do, I suppose — polite and glad they don’t have to spend the rest of their lives alone.

Oh, well, if an elections’ campaign is their idea of a honeymoon, so be it. Mum knew what she was signing up for, she better not regret it.

On my way up, I greet all of Sebastian’s team members by name, ask them about their day, their kids, and the stats. All of them strike up conversations and appear happy someone is considering them humans instead of an extension of Sebastian. He gets all the limelight and will be remembered in history books. They’ll vanish as if they were never there.

I do it to appear polite. If you’re kind and caring, people lay off you. They don’t observe, watch, or dig deeper into you.

I sure as hell don’t do it because I’m actually kind. That’s Silver. She pretends she doesn’t care, yet she goes out of her way to buy gifts for their kids and to make them their favourite tea.

We’re opposite that way. I don’t care, but I appear as if I do. She cares, but she pretends she doesn’t.

I stand in front of my door, and yes, I did choose a room that’s right next to hers. She wanted to protest but didn’t have a valid argument, so she huffed, puffed, and glared.

I love it when she glares. It means I’m getting under her skin, and I love being there — under her skin, I mean.

Instead of going into my room, I do a discreet sweep of the hallway, and once I make sure no one is around, I step into hers.

Her bed is made, but she’s not here. The sound of running water comes from the bathroom. My cock hardens at the thought of her naked and wet.

There has never been a girl who’s pumped so much blood into my dick like she does. And that happens without even touching or seeing her.

A mere thought is enough to reduce me into one of those hormonal teenagers I always thought were fools.

There’s nothing I want more than to get in there and own her all over again. But before that, I need to do my ritual.

I don’t bother readjusting my trousers as I stride to her bedside table and put in the code to her lock. It’s the date her parents announced they’d divorce. She hasn’t changed it at all since I figured it out.

At first, I put in her birthday and smiled when it didn’t work. It meant she’s not predictable. I tried a combination of her favourite number, seven, but that didn’t work either.

Then I recalled the reason why she even started writing in her journal, why she needed a piece of paper to cry to a ‘silent friend’ as she called it in her first entry.

Her parents’ divorce.

I tried the actual date her parents finalised their divorce, which is easy to find on the internet, but that didn’t work either.

The right one is the day she learnt about her parents’ divorce, which, ironically, happens to also be William’s death anniversary.

In the drawer, she has ten journals. One for each year. Some days, she talks a lot, on others, she only writes two words.

I pull out this year’s journal. Since yesterday, I haven’t stopped thinking about what she could’ve written about last night.

When she drove her Mum home, I did sneak a peek, but she hadn’t written an entry yet. Then she returned and didn’t leave her room.

I flip to the last entry. Yesterday.



Today was Papa’s wedding and my eighteenth birthday.

Mum cried and I felt so guilty for liking Helen when Mum clearly doesn’t.

Cole took my virginity today. He just took it and it was so dirty.

Remember when I said I hate Cole? Well, I don’t only hate him.

I despise him.

I wish he would disappear from my life.



I narrow my eyes on her words. She hates me, despises me, wishes I’d disappear from her life.

Fuck that.

It’s the same as every entry she writes about me. Why does she refuse to admit the truth, even to her bloody journal? She does that with everything else.

When she talks about her parents, her life at school, or even how much she misses Kim, she says it truthfully, but every time it’s about me, it’s all fucking lies.