I stare at my bank statement, once again hurt by Dad’s actions.

It’s gone.

All but seven grand was taken out by my father. Not because he’s a gambler or had to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t because his car broke down or we suddenly had medical bills that needed paying.

No.

Dad robbed my college fund for one reason only. Her.

It’s hard not to hate the woman replacing your mother. Mom’s been dead ten years, so I should be fine with Dad having remarried. Manda is a nice enough woman. A little hoity-toity for my liking, but I get along with her okay. It doesn’t mean I have to like her.

What I hate is that Dad is changing for her. Before he met Manda at a gala he’d been invited to last year, we’d been happy. Sure, we’d downsized from the home he shared with Mom upstate and moved to an apartment in the city to be closer to his job. We went from living comfortably to having to pinch pennies. Since Mom was no longer pulling in a sizable income with her speaking engagements, that meant Dad was the breadwinner. Luckily, they had plenty saved for my college.

But for Manda, he wanted to level up to her. Be someone he’s not. Attend fancy functions and shower her with gifts. It wasn’t until last week when I was going to ask him to pull some money out of my college savings account to purchase a car for my birthday, that I learned how much he’d bled it dry.

Five hundred thousand was drained over the course of six months. All for her.

A pricey engagement ring. Expensive dinners. Trip to Europe.

I knew he was spending money on Manda, but I didn’t realize it was coming out of my college fund. Seven thousand won’t even touch my first semester at Columbia University, which runs close to sixty grand a year plus housing, books, and meals.

“Manda has generously offered to pay your tuition, doll.”

I can’t help but shudder at Dad’s reply when I burst into tears after he told me where my education fund went. He made too much money for us to qualify for financial assistance, and even if I apply for loans right now, I’m not promised to receive funding by the time tuition is due. I’d worked so hard to get into Columbia, and now it feels like it’s being stolen away from me.

Sure, the rich doctor who’s now my stepmother will pay for it. But everything Manda does comes with strings attached. “Someone’s pouting,” a deep, predatory voice says.

Triplet Terror #1. Otherwise known as Scout. My wicked, terrible, awful new stepbrother.

“Go away,” I grumble, snapping my laptop closed so he won’t see what little I have left in my account.

He prowls into my room, scrunching his nose up in disgust at my décor that litters the walls. Dad calls it junk. I call it bohemian chic. I’d like to say I have an eclectic sense of style. I collect all sorts of fun, random things to make my space my own.

“Mom is going to bite your head off for putting pin holes all over the walls,” Scout says, plopping down on my bed beside me.

Too close.

Always too close with this one.

“Where’s Thing 1 and Thing 2?” I ask, giving him my bitchiest smile. Like I care about his brothers. I hate them all.

“Sully is at the driving range with Baron.” His dark brown eyes narrow as he waits for a reaction. I give him none.

“Dad always wanted a son,” I volley back. “And look, now he has three.”

He scoffs as though he’s offended to be called Baron Elliott’s son. “Sparrow gives them until the end of the year.” He grins at me, wolfish and terrifying. “Then Mom will destroy him just like her last three husbands.”

Dr. Amanda Mannford or Manda the Maneater as I like to call her in my head—serial divorcee.

Anger swells up inside me, and it takes everything in me not to go off on him. I hate Scout because he’s such a shit starter. Dad asked me to get along with Manda, which I try, but my three stepbrothers are another story entirely. They’re all three bordering on psychotic, especially Scout.

“Dad says it’s true love,” I taunt. “Maybe they’ll even have an oops baby together.”

His dark eyes flash with cruelty. “She doesn’t love him, and she barely tolerates you. Besides, we were test tube babies. Mom can’t get pregnant the old-fashioned way.”

“Whatever,” I grumble. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

He runs his knuckle up and down my spine, making me shiver from the touch. “Nah. I’m on babysitting duty today.”

I snap my attention his way, glowering at him. In another world, I’d find someone like Scout attractive. Tall, muscular, chiseled jaw. His black hair and fair skin make him look like a vampire. I always got a thrill from the dark, dangerous types. But there’s just something completely wrong with the Terror Triplets. They’re missing some key elements most humans have. In the three months I’ve lived with them, I’ve watched them make maids cry, destroy property for fun, and fuck more girls than humanly possible.

“You’re still in high school,” I spit out. “I’m off to college. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Technicality because we were held back. The three of us are older than you, Ash. But I wasn’t talking about age. I was talking about the fact we have to make sure you don’t try to screw over our mom. That takes constant watching.”

“Fuck off,” I snap. “And get out of my room.”

“It belongs to Mom, not you,” he sneers. “Best remember that. Mom would love to remind you of that. In fact, maybe I should tell her about all these new holes in her walls.”

He stands and stretches, his T-shirt lifting to show off his muscled abs from playing lacrosse at Pembroke Preparatory School. When he catches me looking, his smile grows even more devious than before.

“Like what you see, little sister?” He cups his junk through his jeans. “I could show you a little more.” Gross.

I shoot him the bird, ignoring his taunts. Of the triplets, he’s the one who takes his stalking seriously. The other two tolerate me, but he goes out of his way to probe and poke at me.

“Fine,” he says as he makes his way to the door. “When you want some dick, you know where to find me. Warning, though. Mom will be very, very angry if you fuck her favorite son.”

I refrain from throwing my laptop at him. Barely. “Go to hell, Scout.” His laughter can be heard echoing, long after he leaves.

Creep.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Just like always, my bird Shrimp goes back to making noise in his bird cage the moment Scout leaves. Scout is definitely the spawn of Satan, because Shrimp is scared to death of him. My pink parakeet loves everyone except my stepmother and her monster boys. Shrimp is a good judge of character.

My phone alarm blares, and I groan. Time to get ready for work. I hate this new job I’ve only been working at for a week. I hate my new family. I hate the fact I’m going to have to rely on Manda to pay for my school. I hate everything.

Halcyon Building is silent as I push my cleaning cart along the halls. FGM Services cleans a few high-end buildings in the city, including this one. They’re strict on hiring and require hella experience, but because Manda knows the owner, I was given a job. One I obviously need since Dad raided my college fund.

“Don’t embarrass me.”

Manda’s words have been echoing in my head all week. Cleaning at these expensive offices isn’t exactly rocket science. In fact, most of the offices don’t require nightly cleaning, but we have to go through the motions anyway.

Like last night.

After Dad stood me up for my birthday lunch and none of my friends had plans to do anything for me, I spent my eighteenth birthday yesterday with the company of a noisy bird. And, because of Manda, I also got to work on my not-so-special day. I’d been annoyed and hurt last night. Most of the offices were pretty clean, so I just glanced around to make sure they weren’t too messy and took the night to goof off.

The thought of cleaning a whole floor of offices that are perfect feels redundant and boring. I need the money, but I don’t know how much I can take of this.

I don’t want to clean.

I want to sit behind a desk and crunch numbers. Talk shop. Plan expansions. My dad is an economic analyst, which is what I want to be too. I’d always imagined us going into business together and heading up our own firm.

Cleaning won’t get me there.

I suppose playing nice with Manda the Maneater is my only resort at this point.

For the next hour, I rush through all the offices that don’t need much more than the trash cans emptied, and then make it to the CEO’s office. One day, I’ll have an office like Winston Constantine, but I won’t be some old fuddy duddy. I’ll be a boss babe with style. My employees will love me, because I imagine I’ll be cool as hell. Rather than hire a boring interior designer like whatever robot chose the furniture and décor for Halcyon, I’ll do it all myself.

I’m once again daydreaming of my future that seems more and more murky these days as I fumble through my email on my phone to find the code to get into Big Man’s office. Of all the offices, this one is the coldest and most boring. As though whoever Winston Constantine is, he doesn’t do any sort of work, but instead gazes out the windows all day.

Finally, I locate the code and punch it in.

It’s like twelve numbers long, and I fail a few times before it grants me entry. With a sigh of frustration, I push the door open and drag my rolling cart in after me into the dark office. I hit the light switch with my elbow and leave my cart in front of the door to prop it open. I fidget with the dumb uniform skirt I have to wear and wonder if anyone would notice if I wore jeans instead.

I grab the duster and make a beeline over to the painting on the  wall.  It’s  the  best  part  of  the  office besides the cool desk that moves up and down and the windows overlooking the most picturesque parts of New York City. I touch the bottom of the frame to check for dust. As I imagined it to be, there’s not a speck.

I’m just moving to the bookshelves when I hear a creak.

“You’re supposed to clean it, not pretend,” a deep, furious voice growls, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.

“What the fuck, man?” I snap, whirling around, dropping my duster in the process. “You can’t just sneak up…” I trail off as I drink in the man sitting in the desk chair.

Holy shit.

Was he here the whole time? Fucking creepy!

But there’s nothing creepy about his looks. He’s not a fuddy duddy either, if this is Winston Constantine.

He’s fine as hell.

Older. Dressed to the nines in a three-piece navy suit that looks custom-tailored  and  expensive.  A handsome, villainous smirk on his face. His dark blond hair is shorter on the sides and longer on top, styled perfectly, making it look as though he came from a photoshoot at Gucci or something. Just enough scruff to give him an edge despite his otherwise clean-cut appearance. It’s his eyes that are mesmerizing.

Dark blue. Intense. Penetrating.

For some reason, it makes me think about my ex-boyfriend, Tate. The exact opposite of this man. Soft and sweet and gullible. Tate and I were a high school thing, but the moment we graduated a couple of weeks ago, we amicably broke it off knowing we were headed in different directions. This guy looks anything but soft, sweet, or gullible.

He looks scary. Scary hot.

But still scary.

I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’ll just empty your trash and be out of your way.”

“No,” he rumbles, his voice dripping in a menacing tone. “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time we chat, little girl.”