King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang

It was a rhetorical question. We both knew why.

Money bought a lot of things, but it couldn’t buy off inherent biases.

“We have to work twice as hard to get an iota of the same respect as our peers. We are criticized for every misstep and examined for every flaw when others get away with much worse. We have to be perfect.” My mother sighed. With her flawless skin and immaculate grooming, she usually passed for someone in her late thirties or early forties, but today, she looked her full age.

“You’re a good daughter, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you’re not. I criticize you to protect you, but…” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps that’s not always the right approach.”

I managed a laugh through the tears crowding my throat. “Perhaps not.”

“I can’t change entirely. I’m old, Vivian, no matter how good my skin looks.” She gave a small smile at my second laugh. “Certain things have become habit. But I can try and tone down my…observations.”

It was the best I could ask for. If she’d offered anything else, it would’ve been unrealistic at best and inauthentic at worst. People couldn’t change entirely, but effort mattered.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For listening to me, and for standing up to Father.”

“You’re welcome.”

An awkward silence descended. Heartfelt conversations weren’t common in the Lau household, and neither of us knew where to go from here.

“Well.” My mother rose first and smoothed a hand over her elegant silk dress. “I have to check on the soup for dinner. I don’t trust Agnes’s chef. They put too much salt in everything.”

“I’ll shower and change.” I paused. “Is Father…will he be at dinner?”

The trip would be a waste if he locked himself in his room and avoided me the entire time.

“He’ll be there,” my mother said. “I’ll make sure of it.”





Two hours later, my father and I sat across from each other at the dining table, him next to my mother, me in between Agnes and Dante.

Tension suffocated the air as we ate in silence.

He hadn’t looked at me or Dante once since he entered. He was furious with us. It was obvious in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his scowl. But whatever he had to say, he didn’t say it at the table with my mother and sister present.

Dante ate languorously, seemingly unaffected by my father’s silent rage, while my poor sister tried to make conversation.

“You should’ve seen the interior minister’s face when the royal cat ran across the stage,” she said, recounting a story from the palace’s Spring Ball. “I don’t know how it got into the room. Queen Bridget was a good sport about it, but I thought her communications secretary would have a stroke.”

No one responded.

Meadows, Eldorra’s royal feline, was adorable, but none of us particularly cared about her daily adventures.

Someone coughed. Silverware clinked loudly against china. Deep in the house, one of the dogs barked.

I cut into my chicken so hard the knife scraped the plate with a soft screech.

My mother glanced at me. Normally, she would’ve berated me for it, but tonight, she didn’t say a word.

More silence.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“We were better as a family before we were rich.”

Three forks froze mid-air. Dante was the only one who continued eating, though his eyes were sharp and dark as he watched the other’s reactions.

“We had family dinners every night. We went camping and didn’t care whether our clothes were last season or what type of car we drove. And we would’ve never forced someone into doing something they didn’t want to.” The insinuation hung heavy over the frozen table. “We were happier, and we were better people.”

I kept my eyes on my father.

I was being more confrontational than I’d planned, but it had to be said. I was tired of holding back what I thought simply because it was unbecoming or inappropriate. We were family. We were supposed to tell each the truth, no matter how hard it may be to hear.

“Were we?” My father appeared unmoved. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I paid your full college tuition so you could graduate without debt. You weren’t concerned about being happier or better people when I bankrolled your shopping sprees and year abroad.”

Viciousness coated his words.

The metal handle of my fork dug into my palm. “I’m not saying I didn’t benefit from the money. But benefiting from and even enjoying something doesn’t mean I can’t criticize it. You’ve changed, Dad.” I deliberately used my old address for him. It sounded distant and strange, like the echoes of a long-forgotten song. “You’ve strayed so far from—”

“Enough!” Cutlery and china rattled in an eerie déjà vu from my father’s office.

Beside me, Dante finally set down his fork, his muscles tensing and coiling like a panther ready to pounce.

“I won’t sit here and have you insult me in front of my own family.” My father glared at me. “It’s bad enough you chose him”—he didn’t look at Dante, but everyone knew which him he was talking about—“over us. We raised you, fed you, and made sure you wanted for nothing, and you thank us by walking away when the family needs you most. You do not get to sit here and lecture me. I am your father.”