SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

012

AUGUST



I pulled into the garage of the main house and killed the engine.

For a moment, I stayed there, hands gripping the wheel, jaw tight, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.

I looked outside to know if I could still back out, but Alia, my sister, was already there.

She leaned against her Porsche like she belonged in a high-end magazine spread—tailored trousers, silk blouse, sunglasses perched even though we were indoors. Arms crossed, weight on one hip. That familiar, knowing smirk was there, the one that said she already thought she knew exactly what storm was brewing in my head.

I sighed and got down. The moment my feet hit the ground, she whistled low.

“When did you get this one?”

I followed her gaze to my matte-black Lamborghini. Sleek, arrogant beast. I shrugged. “Last week. Needed something to match Daniel’s.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might actually get stuck like that. “Your friend is a womanizing bastard.”

We started walking toward the house together, footsteps echoing off the garage walls.

I didn’t argue. There was no point. Daniel was exactly that—charming, reckless, and allergic to commitment. The kind of man who could smile his way out of consequences and never look back. I’d warned him years ago to stay far away from Alia. Family was off-limits. He’d laughed, sworn he’d behave, and—credit where it was due—he mostly had. Mostly.

“What do you think the parents want to talk about?” she asked, bumping my shoulder lightly, like we were kids again sneaking in past curfew.

I scoffed. “Taylor.”

She groaned. “Of course. I could smell this ambush from a mile away.”

She stopped just before the front door and turned to face me fully. The smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. Concern. A small crease appeared between her brows.

“I don’t like your girl, August.”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “Thank you for repeating it. Always refreshing.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, then sighed. “But seriously… is there really no way you can make them understand why this thing won’t work between you two?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. The tension there never fully went away anymore. “I’ll find ways to make sure it doesn’t work out. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with the princess.”

That got a laugh out of her.

We walked inside together, the grand foyer stretching above us, polished floors reflecting the morning light.

My mother was waiting by the door. Arms folded. Lips pressed into that thin line I knew too well—the one that meant disappointment, calculation, and a hint of impatience all at once. She didn’t move as we entered, just watched, letting the silence stretch until it pressed against my chest.

I already knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant. Not in the slightest.

Alia broke away from my side and ran forward, throwing her arms around our mother.

“Mom!” she cried, her voice bright and unguarded.

Mother hugged her back, warm, practiced, and easy, but her eyes never left me. Cold. Measuring. Already disappointed.

She kissed the top of Alia’s head with a softness that felt almost theatrical. “Go upstairs and greet your father,” she instructed.

Alia pulled back, hesitated, and then shot me one last sympathetic look before disappearing up the stairs. The small glance hit me more than I wanted to admit, a reminder that even she understood how trapped I felt.

“Mother,” I said. My voice was flat, neutral, and defensive by habit. I forced it, though the tension in my chest made it hard to breathe.

“I can’t watch you ruin the good works of my father just because you don’t want this marriage to happen, August,” she said, voice sharp and unyielding.

I clenched my jaw, tasting copper in my mouth. “Come on, Mom—”

She held up a hand, sharp and final. “Taylor has been engaged to you for ten years. Ten years.”

Ten years. The words landed like bricks. A decade of expectations, of plans, of life choices made for me long before I’d been able to understand them. For a decade I had barely been allowed to breathe on my own.

“You forced the engagement down my throat at eighteen,” I snapped, the edge in my voice surprising even me. “All I wanted at eighteen was girlfriends. Fun. Freedom. Live—like—”

“Like Daniel,” she cut in sharply, her words slicing through me like a blade.

“Like every other teenager that age,” I added, my voice rising despite myself.

She scoffed again, louder this time, the sound bouncing harshly off the walls. “Those teenagers were normal. And you are not. In any way… normal.”

There it was—the word I had heard a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Normal. As if it were a mark, a scar, a judgment carved into my very bones. Even now, it made me shrink inside.

“We don’t want you on the news for going off or… or hurting someone’s kid just because, August,” she continued, each word landing like a precise, calculated punch.

Old wounds tore open instantly—the whispered conversations behind closed doors, the “incident” everyone seemed to talk about as though I weren’t even in the room, and the doctors who had treated me like an object of curiosity.

I kept my mouth shut. Arguing only ever made it worse. Always had, always would.

“Come on,” she said, turning on her heel. Her heels clicked down the hall, precise and sharp like herself. “Your father’s waiting.”

The moment we stepped into his office.

Camera flashes went off. Everywhere was bright, blinding, and disorienting. My eyes stung. My brain lagged behind, trying to catch up to the chaos. Reporters and photographers, all smiling and eager, crowded the space that should have been private, invading it with lenses and chatter.

A warm hand slipped into mine.

Taylor. When did she even get here? I thought this meeting was for family?

She stood beside me like she always did—perfect posture, perfect smile. Cream silk dress hugging her just enough to be elegant without being flashy, pearls resting at her throat. Hair swept up flawlessly. Makeup flawless.

She squeezed my fingers, but I tried to pull away.

She held tighter. Controlled. Enforcing her calm over me just like everything else in this room.

My father joined my mother at the front. The two of them framed together like a perfect, untouchable portrait: wealth, power, and legacy. Alia hovered near the back, shifting nervously, clearly wishing she were anywhere else. I realized then that even she was dressed up. Everyone was. Except me. Sweatpants. T-shirt. I looked like I had wandered into the wrong life entirely.

Mother glanced at the cameras. “Delete every part that looked like we weren’t prepared for this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the reporters chorused quickly, snapping and nodding, already moving to obey.

“Good.” She smiled that practiced, society smile—polished, perfect, untouchable. “Now shall we?”

She stepped forward, voice smooth and clear, rehearsed.

“It’s with great joy,” she began, each word measured, “that we announce our son’s wedding date to Taylor Monroe, the daughter of our business partner, which will be taking place in the next three months—June eleventh.”

The room erupted. Flashes. Murmurs. Shouts of congratulations overlapping each other.

I didn’t hear any of it.

Marriage?

Wedding?

Three months?