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

It was so thick I couldn’t see beyond the outer edges, but I’d bet my entire bank account Dante was the center of their attention.

My suspicions were confirmed when the crowd shifted briefly to reveal a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders.

A rush of awareness ran the length of my spine.

Dante and I belonged to tangential social circles, but we’d never officially met. From what I’d heard of his reputation, I was happy keeping it that way.

Still, his presence was magnetic, and I felt the pull of it all the way across the room.

An insistent buzz against my hip washed away the tingles coating my skin and drew my attention away from Dante’s fan club. My stomach sank when I fished my personal cell out of my purse and saw who was calling.

I shouldn’t take personal calls in the middle of a work event, but one simply didn’t ignore a summons from Francis Lau.

I double-checked to make sure there were no emergencies requiring my immediate attention before I slipped into the nearest restroom.

“Hello, Father.” The formal greeting rolled off my tongue easily after almost twenty years of practice.

I used to call him Dad, but after Lau Jewels took off and we moved out of our cramped two-bedroom into a Beacon Hill mansion, he insisted on being called Father instead. Apparently, it sounded more “sophisticated” and “upper class.”

“Where are you?” His deep voice rumbled over the line. “Why is it so echoey?”

“I’m at work. I snuck into a bathroom to take your call.” I leaned my hip against the counter and felt compelled to add, “It’s a fundraiser for the endangered piping plover.”

I smiled at his heavy sigh. My father had little patience for the obscure causes people used as an excuse to party, though he attended the events donated anyway. It was the proper thing to do.

“Every day, I learn about a new endangered animal,” he grumbled. “Your mother is on a fundraising committee for some fish or other, like we don’t eat seafood every week.”

My mother, formerly an aesthetician, was now a professional socialite and charity committee member.

“Since you’re at work, I’ll keep this short,” my father said. “We’d like you to join us for dinner on Friday night. We have important news.”

Despite his wording, it wasn’t a request.

My smile faded. “This Friday night?” It was Tuesday, and I lived in New York while my parents lived in Boston.

It was a last-minute request even by their standards.

“Yes.” My father didn’t elaborate. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

He hung up.

My phone stayed frozen on my ear for an extra beat before I removed it. It slipped against my clammy palm and almost clattered to the floor before I shoved it back into my purse.

It was funny how one sentence could send me into an anxiety spiral.

We have important news.

Did something happen with the company? Was someone sick or dying? Were my parents selling their house and moving to New York like they’d once threatened to do?

My mind raced through with a thousand questions and possibilities.

I didn’t have an answer, but I knew one thing.

An emergency summons to the Lau manor never boded well.





CHAPTER 2





Vivian





My parents’ living room looked like something out of an Architectural Digest spread. Tufted settees sat at right angles to carved wood tables; porcelain tea sets jostled for space next to priceless tchotchkes. Even the air smelled cold and impersonal, like generically expensive freshener.

Some people had homes; my parents had a showpiece.

“Your skin looks dull.” My mother examined me with a critical eye. “Have you been keeping up with your monthly facials?”

She sat across from me, her own skin glowing with pearlescent luminosity.

“Yes, Mother.” My cheeks ached from the forced politeness of my smile.

I’d stepped foot in my childhood home ten minutes ago, and I’d already been criticized for my hair (too messy), my nails (too long), and now, my complexion.

Just another night at the Lau manor.

“Good. Remember, you can’t let yourself go,” my mother said. “You’re not married yet.”

I held back a sigh. Here we go again.

Despite my thriving career in Manhattan, where the event planning market was more cutthroat than a designer sample sale, my parents were fixated on my lack of a boyfriend and, therefore, lack of marital prospects.

They tolerated my work because it was no longer fashionable for heiresses to do nothing, but they were salivating for a son-in-law, one who could increase their foothold in the circles of the old money elite.

We were rich, but we would never be old money. Not in this generation.

“I’m still young,” I said patiently. “I have plenty of time to meet someone.”

I was only twenty-eight, but my parents acted like I would shrivel into the Crypt Keeper the second midnight struck on my thirtieth birthday.

“You’re almost thirty,” my mother countered. “You’re not getting any younger, and you have to start thinking about marriage and kids. The longer you wait, the smaller the dating pool becomes.”

“I am thinking about it.” Thinking about the year of freedom I have left before I’m forced to marry a banker with a numeral after his last name. “As for getting younger, that’s what Botox and plastic surgery is for.”