But all it would take was one good push to watch him fall.
Not even all the king’s horses or all the king’s men,
Would be able to put Colt Richfield Turner back together again.
I’ve always been fond of nursery rhymes. Growing up, I loved putting my own little spin on them, making the childish poems that much more enjoyable for me. My mother used to do it all the time when she tucked me in at night. While other kids my age loved to hear fabled tales about slaying dragons and conquering monsters, she knew no bedtime story could ever compare to when she sang these little rhymes to me. Especially when she made sure they depicted the people in my life so perfectly.
At this very minute, unbeknownst to him, the altered Humpty Dumpty rhyme suits Colt like a fine leather glove.
Discreetly I lean back against my auditorium chair, watching my prey from my peripheral as he scrolls through his feed on his phone, ignoring the lecture taking place. In his wine-colored Tommy Hilfiger sweater, a color he intentionally picked out, knowing it would accentuate his best feature—his sparkling emerald eyes—he dons his usual cool expression, broadcasting how his mere presence in this classroom should be considered a privilege and not a given. It’s no secret Colt is vain to his very core. He enjoys the regal air he puts out into the world, the very one he’s showcasing now, intent on reminding us mere mortals that no one in this room could ever measure up. That he’s better than everyone he could ever come in contact with, and it would serve us well to remember that.
And in most cases, he’s right.
He is better.
Colt was born and bred into a family whose sovereign power can be felt just by walking down any Asheville street that bears their last name. Everyone knows that he, along with his three sisters and cousin, is the last Richfield heir—a dynasty that most would sell their souls to be a part of. Colt has been disciplined to be refined and elevated in his stature, so his pretentious vanity isn’t mind-boggling. It’s just fucking infuriating to watch.
Cold.
Heartless.
Narcissistic.
That is the very definition of who Colt Turner is.
He only shows a sliver of humanity when he has some woman underneath him, and even then, he discards them as easily as most would day-old trash. Yet despite all his faults, the female population around campus can’t seem to get enough of him. It’s almost as if they believe one of them might hold the power to change his stone-cold heart into feeling something.
But I know better.
Colt doesn’t feel. He’s incapable of it.
Most people would constitute his cold apathy as being his biggest flaw, but for me, I actually believe it’s his best asset. One I’ve made sure to take into account in my carefully laid out plans of revenge.
In war, it’s not only relevant to have the best weapons in your arsenal, but also aim it where it will do the most damage. And to a man like Colt, who seems impervious to everything around him, your aim needs to be precise and true. In the art of destruction and carnage, I’ve learned that every great general has a weakness. The chink in Colt’s cleverly fabricated armor is secrets—ones that he keeps hidden under such a callous exterior, and others that people close to him have kept concealed from him all his life.
Yes.
Secrets can be a powerful weapon if you have the fortitude to use them correctly, and to Colt’s misfortune, I am more than equipped to handle his downfall. I yearn for it. Hunger and thirst about the upcoming day where I witness his case-hardened heart break into a thousand small fragments before my very eyes. The ice in his veins will boil over as madness sets in, betrayal living rent-free in his mind. Although I won’t be able to boast I had a hand in his suffering, I’ll bask in the glory of his demise just the same. It’s sure to be one of my biggest triumphs against the Richfields.
That is until I go after Lincoln.
But as the saying goes, the best should always be left for last. Yet, I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips, knowing that Lincoln will suffer just as much as Colt will, soon enough. The warmth that flutters in my chest regarding both cousins’ impending ruin has the mimicking effects of an illegal