Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
25
Payton
I’m running late.Again.
This is officially the story of my life since I moved in with Trent.
Every morning, I wake up and clean this asshole’s loft. Wouldn’t bother me if I got to pick the time, but for some reason, he now wants me to do it after he leaves for work, but before I go to school.
I wake up at five in the morning now, which again wouldn’t be a problem alone, but I’m up until two every night, studying.
Worst part? I’m not even studying stuff for my major. I’m studying things ‘Trent deems appropriate.’ Gail’s words. Not mine. Though she gave me a heads-up on the next curriculum Trent set up, and I’m pretty sure that’s a major breach of procedure for her.
On the train, I find myself muttering the same sentence to myself
“What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.”
It’s my mantra these days. It’s either that or “Fuck. My. Life.”
And I’m still secretly comprising a list of all my grievances against Trent Aldridge.
What started as a way to prepare myself for a court case has now become therapy journaling. I pull out the journal and spend the entire train ride reviewing the list, debating what to add to it.
It reads like this:
- Without written notice that the Trustee would no longer pay my bills, all services and tuition payments were canceled.
- Without warning or legal timing to find alternative housing, I was evicted from the home that should have been paid for by Trustee.
- My mode of transportation payments was canceled by Trustee and vehicle repossessed.
- Without telling me the rate and penalty ahead of time, I get charged two thousand per minute from the trust when I arrive late to meetings the Trustee requested.
- Trent is a giant dickhole to me for no reason, except his father decided to be nice to me and an asshole to him. (Fine, I don’t know what to say about this one . . . but I feel like a court would need to hear it.)
- He’s making me write homework assignments and volunteer at a retirement community. (Again, probably not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and I really do love going to the retirement center every day. Maybe I won’t bring that to the court either.)
Normally, when my journaling is done in the morning and Trent leaves, I begin cleaning the apartment one room at a time as quickly as I can. Once I put down the mop, I have to shower, dress, sneak food out of the kitchen without Chef cutting off my hand, and catch the train to get to school on time.
With the new schedule, I save the journaling for the train ride and catch as much sleep as I can manage. The thing is, no matter how much it sucks (and it does), I know I’m lucky.
I have a roof over my head.
A bed to sleep in.
A tyrannical chef feeding me, even if it’s behind his back.
Plus, even if I don’t take all that into consideration, I know this is not the worst Trent Aldridge can do. He is going easy on me. Soon, he will turn up the heat on the amount of work he requires of me. And these days will be ones I look back on fondly.
In comparison, at least.
I hop off the train and sprint to catch a cab, all while telling myself that I’m not scared. That I’ll be able to handle it.
And I believe it.
I’ve lived through worse.
My bag slaps against my back as I run. The air chills me where my shirt is wet from my hair. I didn’t have time to dry it before I left. The strands still cling to the back of my shirt, little droplets of water saturating the material.
I pull my bag higher on my shoulder when I hear, well feel, it vibrate. I’m already late, but I pause in my dash to take out my phone.
I look at the screen. It’s a number I don’t know.
Normally, I wouldn’t answer an unknown number.
Especially after the creepy hang-ups months back, and the strange music always playing.
I know I shouldn’t answer it.
But I’m waiting for some information for grad school, so I really don’t have the luxury of sending any calls to voicemail.
The thought of not getting into a grad program after everything I have endured to get here is not something I want to think about, so I pick up the phone, still not convinced it isn’t one of Trent’s mouth-breathing lackeys again, trying to scare me.
“Hello,” I answer, but I’m not expecting anyone to respond, so when I hear the rough voice on the other side of the line, I stop walking.
“Payton,” a gravelly voice says.
“Yes—who is this?”
“It’s Brad.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize who Brad is, but when I do, my stomach clenches tightly.
He’s never called me before.
Why is my sister’s boyfriend calling me?
“Is everything okay with Erin?” I reply, my voice tight with dread.
The air in my lungs spills out with relief that it’s not a prank call, followed shortly by momentary panic. It’s rooted deep inside me, just from speaking to him. His mere voice sets me on edge.
“She’s fine,” he grits out, and his tone is enough to tamp down my fear and replace it with annoyance.
Typical.
The man is calling me, obviously wanting something from me, and he gives me attitude.
“Oh, okay, what can I do for you, Brad?” I’d rather do more chores for Trent than lift a single finger for Deadbeat Brad.
I also have a feeling I will not like whatever he says. It’s not just that he’s rough around the edges.
There’s something else about him that I don’t like, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not that he’s ever hit on me, but it’s the way he looks at me. I know I’m being paranoid.
Not every man wants you, Payton.
Still. I don’t like him. I remind myself it’s okay not to love everyone I meet.
“Did you get our money?” he asks without a lick of shame.
A part of me isn’t surprised that my sister has her boyfriend doing her dirty work. Erin keeps asking and texting, looking for the money that I don’t have.
I don’t know what more I can say to her.
I tell her all the time that the moment I turn twenty-two, I’ll get it, but it doesn’t matter.
She still wants me to ask Trent for it now. I’m supposed to, according to her, tell Trent I have expenses I didn’t anticipate.
The problem is, she doesn’t know that it’s hard enough to get money from him to pay for my train tickets at this point.
I haven’t told Erin what’s going on with Trent.
I have too much going on in my life right now to deal with her on my case. Freaking out about the situation. Being all dramatic about “how this is cozy.” How she thinks I’m lying about my situation. How I cannot be trusted. How I’m the worst family she could ever ask for.
I can already hear her ranting how this isn’t fair to her.
It’s easier for me just to pretend that everything is all right and that I’ve just been busy, but I know I’m going to have to come clean and tell her that he is giving me hell.
My teeth bite down on my lower lip.
“I don’t have it,” I respond, knowing full well, Brad won’t be happy.
But I’m sick of this.
Frankly, I don’t deserve to be hounded by them when she hasn’t even bothered looking for a job.
“You gotta get that money,” he warns. I’m not sure if I’m imagining the threat there, but it puts me on edge. “We need it now, dammit.”
I flinch at the tone of his voice, but I steady mine and respond, “It’s not that simple, Brad.”
“Make it that simple.” I hear his pants. Like he’s pacing. Working himself up. “Your sister is driving me insane. She’s freaking out.”
“What is the cash for?”
“Our fucking bills,” he spits out. The panting intensifies. If anything, he should use that money on a trip to the doctor’s. That doesn’t sound healthy at all. “I already told you once, Payton, and I ain’t telling you shit again.”
They told me the same thing when I was at their place, but I am still cautious. Honestly, I don’t believe a thing that comes out of either of their mouths. Ever.
“How does Erin not have any money left?”
“Not everyone is living in the laps of luxury, little princess.”
When Brad says that nickname, it feels like spiders are crawling up my arm. Although it rubs me the wrong way when Trent says it, it’s nothing like when Brad does. Trent might hate me, but Brad makes it sound dirty.
“There is no part of me that is a princess, and you of all people should know that,” I snap. Inhaling, I forge on, “You’ll get the money for the utility bills, but it won’t be three grand. I’ll call you when I have what I can get. Pass that on to Erin.”
I hang up the phone, annoyed.
He’s not kidding. I’m sure Erin is driving him crazy. I know she has some money, but she’s probably just used not to having to pay for her own utilities and credit card bills.
In the past, everything was automatically deducted from a fund Ronald made for her. An allowance of sorts. Even for the first year that he was gone, he paid for everything.
Shortly before Ronald died, the money just stopped getting sent out. Which was why Erin started freaking. Even with my suspicions about Ronnie’s undesirable behavioral traits, I have no doubt Erin is at fault. She must have done something for her to lose access to the funds.
And instead of owning up to her mistakes, I’m the one being forced to go to Trent and beg for more.
Which I know will cost me so much pain and suffering from him.
I’m so sick of all this bullshit.
I turn around and walk faster, my anger and frustration pouring out of me in tears.
The train ride back to Trent’s is a blur. Literally. I can’t see past the rim of hot, unshed tears coating my eyes. I swipe at them before I reach his office.
I should wait until I’m alone to cry, but I can’t hold them back. I don’t even know why I returned here. Why I didn’t say fuck it and go to class like I should’ve. But I know I’m weak right now, and I need to get out of here before anyone sees.
By the time I make it to the front door, I’m practically sobbing, and if my day isn’t bad enough, I walk into a wall.
Except it’s not a wall.
Walls don’t smell this good.
“Hold up, princess.”
Trent’s arms wrap around my shoulders, steadying me so I don’t fall over.
I feel like crawling into a hole and dying. It’s not bad enough I had to see him, but I have to see him when I’m crying and sobbing like an idiot.
With his hands still holding on to my shoulders, I continue to look at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. But then his right hand drops, and I feel it touch my jaw. He lifts my head.
“Wait. What’s wrong?” he asks.
The care and concern in his voice is enough to give me pause.
“Nothing.”
He looks into my eyes, and it unnerves me. It makes my body fall forward, wrap around him, and cry.
Sob.
I’m freaking holding on to the enemy and sobbing into his arms.
And as much as I want to pull away, I can’t.
I physically can’t move.
Instead, my body slumps forward even more. A muffled cry escapes my lips. I let out all the emotions. The pain of the past twenty-one years. The fear of what’s to come. The heartbreak of having family that doesn’t love me.
And during my episode . . .
Trent Aldridge holds me.
That’s the most shocking part.
He holds me as I cry.
He holds me as I breathe.
He holds me as I try to pull myself together.
This man who hates me rubs his hands up and down my arms to comfort me.
A part of me knows I should pull away.
But this feeling is scarce.
Not readily available to me.
I’m not prepared to let it go just yet.
The need to bask in it for a little longer weaves its way through me.
I don’t want it to end.
Not when I know the feeling won’t be back.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been comforted like this. Maybe never.
Eventually, and after a few deep breaths, I wake up from the dream I’m in and pull my head back to look up at him.
Blue eyes meet mine.
A million questions staring back.
I think he’s going to press and ask me why I was crying, but instead, he stares down at me before blinking. The look from before is gone, replaced with a look of confusion.
I don’t think he’s confused about me. More at himself.
Neither of us moves for a beat.
Then he drops his hands, turns, and walks away.
What the hell just happened?
Time passes way too fast.I get busy with schoolwork and the dumb papers I’m required to turn in every damn week. Buried in books, I almost forget that we are going to Cresthill today.
When I leave my room and head to Trent’s office, he’s not there.
Next, I go to the kitchen.
Nothing.
Where is he?
However, his driver, Michael, is waiting for me in the foyer after I have searched the whole damn loft.
“Mr. Aldridge won’t be riding with us, ma’am.”
A part of me is annoyed that he didn’t tell me himself. Another part is happy because I feel a bit awkward after he held me when I cried. Couple that with still remembering him in his birthday suit . . . well, maybe not being trapped with him in a small space is a good thing.
When his body was pressed against me, I was too upset to think about it, but the moment he left me, it was all I could think of. The heat dissipated too quickly when I lost his touch. His warmth was something I couldn’t understand craving.
Once in the car, I let myself wonder where he is.
I tell myself it’s not worry I feel, but it doesn’t change the ugly truth. Trent is religious about his volunteer work. There have been a handful of times he hasn’t gone, and it’s usually planned out ahead of time. Not sudden like this.
The drive takes less time than usual, or maybe it just feels quicker because I don’t have to deal with Trent giving me dirty looks.
Technically, it’s way more peaceful—and spacious. His large presence and ego in a car are almost too much for the space. But it’s also a stormy experience, with my brain working in overdrive to convince myself I’m not worried.
We arrive about twenty minutes later.
Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve come here, my breath still leaves my body from how beautiful this place is.
It’s not a home.
It’s a sanctuary.
Peaceful and calm.
Flowers and fountains greet me as soon as my body leaves the car.
Even the fragrance is different in Cresthill.
It’s as if I’m walking through a field of lilies. A floral scent, rich and sweet. Too strong to be anything but natural.
Like always, my coiled-up muscles relax as I make my way through the large lobby. I head straight in and see Margret.
She doesn’t spot me at first.
No, her gaze is looking in the opposite direction.
I follow it.
That’s when I see Trent.
He’s not alone.
Nope.
He’s with a man who looks to be in his late thirties.
I’m confused. He’s way too young to be a resident, and I’ve never seen him visiting or volunteering.
I continue to watch them walk, and it’s when they walk up to Henry that my heart starts to rattle in my chest.
Oh, Trent. You didn’t . . .
They stop at the table in front of Henry. Henry hasn’t seen them yet, but when he does, my world shifts on its axis.
He did.
Henry’s jaw trembles first. Then his hands. They shake uncontrollably as he reaches out to the man. Small tremors wrack out of him until a pair of strong arms reach out and help him stand.
Tears roll down his cheeks, and then the man, the one I don’t know, is hugging him.
“W-who . . .”
I can’t speak.
My throat feels like it’s closing.
I know who it is, but I refuse to believe it.
Margret steals the words from my mouth.
“His son.” Her voice cracks. She, too, is feeling the weight of this moment.
My own eyes start to feel heavy, and I know what’s coming.
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt out, needing space.
Without another word, I walk out and head in the opposite direction. The tears I have been trying to hold back fall regardless.
I finally stop in an enclosed garden.
The ceiling is high and made of glass. I didn’t even know this was here. The last light of the day shines in the space with three clear walls. During the full light of day, I can imagine that it’s bright and refreshing with all the greenery. A planned, repeating design to the plants turns into a sort of boxed garden I’ve seen in movies with English houses. A private oasis in the middle of a building surrounded by the city.
My tears start to dry as I take deep inhales of oxygen. It’s fresher in here. I have the plants to thank for that. The calming space relaxes me, offering me a connection after feeling unmoored after seeing Henry with his son.
That’s when I realize I’m not alone.
In the corner of a space, kneeling next to a plant, is a woman. She must hear me because she turns over her shoulder.
Then she’s walking toward me.
Her face has mud on it. Her eyes are a crisp shade of blue. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” I stare at a freesia nearby, unable to meet her eyes. I finally turn to her. “Have you ever wondered if everything you know about a person is wrong?”
She looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. “Yes. All the time.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“I find that gardening helps.”
“How can a garden help me figure out what I’m missing?”
Her fingers trail along the path of flowers. I follow her.
She stops at one, adjusting the stems. “Do you know that, to most people, a dandelion is just a weed? Something to be plucked and pulled from the yard and flower beds. But in the spring, when the flowers are just starting to wake from winter, the dandelion is the first bloom available for the bees.” She looks off into the distance like she can see that bee now.
“I had no idea.”
She plucks the flower she’s holding and offers it to me. It’s a dandelion. “A weed is but an unloved flower. And people are the same way until you can see around their mistakes and watch them bloom.”
A small gasp leaves my lips as the implication of her words hit me in the chest. I swallow, take the flower from her, and stare at her in astonishment. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
This woman said exactly what I needed to hear at the exact moment I needed to.
Not everything is black and white.
Shades of gray make up the world.
Weeds are flowers, too.
I turn to walk away when she speaks once more. “Trent wasn’t always hateful like this, you know.”
Trent . . . ?
I never mentioned his name.
I turn and look back over my shoulder.
My heart begins to sink before it kicks into high gear as I remember her eyes. A crisp blue I’ve seen before.
That’s when it hits me.
She’s Trent’s mom.
Ronald’s wife.
“He was the sweetest boy,” she continues. “I loved the fact that he was too kind, too soft, but his father knew that wouldn’t do. He made it his goal to harden Trent. It’s not Trent’s fault that he goes about things the way he does now.”
And then, with a sad, small smile, she turns back to her plants.
I leave the little garden in a daze, stepping out a back door and edging myself to the waterline. A gust of wind hits me. The puffy, white seeds fly from the dandelion between my fingers, streaking across the air until they’re too far to track.
When I look back down, all that’s left is a stem.
Trent’s mom was right about the wrong thing.
Nothing in this world stays the same.