So Lucas wanted to stage a "stepfather's massive gambling debt drags down rich stepson" drama, then boot me out with a legit excuse?
Too bad. He underestimated the professional standards of a manipulative male mom.
—
Ten at night. The whole family stayed up for New Year's Eve.
Lucas had changed into casual clothes, sitting on the couch sipping tea, glancing at his watch every so often. Madeline Lambert, the housekeeper—a woman who'd served the Gilbert family for years—hovered nearby, her voice dripping with passive-aggressive venom: "Some people just don't have wealth in their fate, but they insist on squeezing their way in. Sooner or later, something's bound to happen."
I sprawled on the daybed, eating cherries while watching the New Year's Gala.
What did any of that have to do with me?
Suddenly—
BANG!
The villa's front door flew open with one kick. Seven or eight burly men with tattooed arms stormed in, clubs in hand.
"Where's Peter Harding?! Get your ass out here!"
The bald brute at the front had a face like raw meat. First thing he did was smash an antique vase.
Showtime.