The Heir No One Must Know

Chapter 1 : Persistent Bestie

"Come on, Bri, please?" Samantha's voice rang in my ears for what felt like the hundredth time, laced with that familiar whine she always used when she wanted something.

For weeks now, she'd been relentless, pestering me to join her at the newest club in town—a high-end spot that had opened just three weeks ago and was already the hottest place to be.

No matter how many times I tried to brush her off, she never took no for an answer. Her persistence was maddening, her pleas growing more dramatic by the day, and at this point, I was starting to wonder if she'd ever let it go.

I let out a sigh, placing the book I'd been reading on my lap before finally glancing up at her. As expected, Samantha was giving me one of those classic puppy eyes of hers; her lower lip jutting out in a practiced pout.

It was a habit she had perfected ever since we were kids, using it to get her way more times than I cared to count. And, unfortunately for me, it almost always worked.

"Why does it have to be me, Sam?" I asked, shifting into a sitting position and fixing her with a pointed look. "Why not ask Queenie instead?"

She let out an exaggerated huff, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child.

"Queenie's always out with her new boyfriend," she grumbled, her lips forming a deep pout. "She barely has time for us anymore."

The frustration in her voice was obvious, and I could tell she wasn't just annoyed—she was genuinely feeling left out

.

Queenie had been one of our closest friends back in college, the kind of girl who thrived on excitement and never shied away from a little chaos.

She had a habit of chasing after hot guys, falling head over heels in record time—only to end up nursing a broken heart not long after.

It was a cycle she never seemed to break, and honestly, I still couldn't help but wonder if that was even normal. Did she ever get tired of the heartbreak, or was the thrill of the chase what she truly loved?

I grumbled, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

"Why can't you just go on your own, Sam? You know I don't like clubs."

She let out an exaggerated groan, flopping onto the couch beside me.

"Because that's boring! And depressing! Do you really want me to sit there all alone like some loser?" She batted her lashes dramatically before nudging my arm. "Come on, Bri, just this once. I promise it'll be fun."

"I still have work tomorrow," I countered, folding my arms tightly across my chest. "The last thing I need is to show up at work with a hangover. You know how my boss is—he'll make my life miserable for a week. And additionally, I work at a middle school as a teacher. I work with kids' Sam."

Sam groaned dramatically, throwing herself onto the carpeted floor with a loud thud.

"Brielle, please!" she whined, her voice thick with frustration.

"You slept with my brother, and I'm still not over it. You owe me this one!" She flashed me a pleading look, her eyes wide with that same intensity she always had when she wanted something.

This b***h—I let out an exasperated sigh, feeling the familiar frustration bubbling up. It wasn't even a big deal. Well, not to me, anyway.

I had accidentally slept with her brother back in college, a drunken mistake that we both agreed to never speak of again.

That was three years ago, and yet here she was, still finding a way to guilt-trip me over it.

"You're such a pain in the ass sometimes," I shot back, narrowing my eyes at her in mock annoyance. "Don't drag Steven into this; he has nothing to do with it."

Sam rolled her eyes dramatically, but I could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips, as though she knew she had me right where she wanted me.

"Brielle, come on already!" Sam urged, her voice rising with impatience.

I let out another frustrated sigh, knowing this girl wasn't going to stop unless I caved. There went my free time for the night, all thanks to Samantha's relentless persistence.

"Fine, I'll go with you," I relented, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. "But in exchange, you have to drop the whole Steven thing. It's getting really annoying."

She grinned, eyes sparkling with victory, clearly thrilled that she'd won.

"Deal!" she said, sitting up with a satisfied smirk. "But only because I know you secretly love me."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help letting out a small laugh.

Sam had always been persistent—like a dog with a bone, no matter how many times you said no, she'd find a way to wear you down and eventually get what she wanted.

I didn't blame her for pushing me, though. It was just that I wasn't into that stuff. Clubbing, the late-night parties, hooking up with random guys (or girls, obviously)—it just wasn't my scene.

The last time I stepped into a club was about seven months ago, and it hadn't exactly been a memorable experience.

That night was a chaotic blur, the kind of mess you hope to forget as soon as you wake up. I vividly remembered the burning feeling in my stomach, as though my insides were being shredded by the liquor, followed by the violent wave of nausea that hit me like a freight train.

I ended up throwing up all over Sam's custom, expensive boots—her precious designer boots that she swore she'd never let touch the floor. It was a disaster, and somehow, that wasn't even the worst part.

I'd almost gotten lucky with this cute guy, but then his girlfriend showed up—out of nowhere—and ruined everything.

Turns out, he'd been taken all along. I still cringed at the memory of her cold stare and his awkward apology as I stumbled away, nursing a bruised ego and a pounding headache.

The thing is, I don't really know what "fun" means when it comes to clubbing. Is it the kind of fun that leaves you feeling exhilarated and alive, or the kind where you end up getting yourself destroyed by liquor and guys with massive d***s?

I have no idea. Honestly, I'm not even sure what "good fun" really is anymore. I used to think I knew, but that was before everything started to feel like it didn't matter.

Sam skipped over to my closet, her energy contagious as she yanked the cabinet doors open with excitement.

She immediately started digging through my clothes, tossing items aside with the fervor of someone on a mission.

"Ugh, why do you always have boring clothes?" Sam scoffed, pulling out a few of my sweaters and baggy clothes, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust. "Seriously, don't you have at least one thing to show off some skin?"

I raised an eyebrow, watching her toss my clothes aside like they were nothing.

"Sorry, not all of us are into showing off every inch of skin, Sam." But she wasn't listening. She was too busy pulling out pieces of clothing she clearly thought were "too plain" for her taste.

"The clothes you're talking about aren't exactly comfortable. I'd rather stick with what I have. And honestly, I'm not big on showing off skin."

It's another thing Sam finds annoying about me. It's not that I'm overly religious—far from it, actually—but I grew up in a household where modesty was a big deal.

Revealing clothes never really appealed to me, not just because of how I was raised, but because I've never liked the idea of drawing that kind of attention.

It always felt a bit too... much. I'm not into the whole spotlight thing—there's something about being seen as more than just me that I can't shake off.

And to be honest, the idea of walking around in something that screams for attention just makes me uncomfortable. I'd rather keep it simple and let my personality shine, not my outfit.

"That's it, we're going to my place. Get your things, we're going to get you girlified," she declared with unwavering confidence, as though this was the solution to all my problems.

"Girlified? Seriously, Sammy? You're so cheesy," I exclaimed, letting out a laugh despite myself. I couldn't help it—her enthusiasm was contagious, even if her choice of words made me cringe a little.

"Whatever you say, Bri," she shot back, already marching toward the door like she had some master plan. "Now hurry up! We still need to get ready."

She didn't wait for my response, already on a mission to drag me out of my comfort zone.