Wicked Fate

Wicked Fate Sasha Clinton Copyright © 2023 by Sasha Clinton All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design by Sasha Clinton. Subscribe to my newsletter to receive special offers, early excerpts and other exciting stuff. You can follow me Instagram and Tiktok. Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Epilogue Acknowledgments Also by Sasha Clinton Prologue Ella When I was eighteen, I tried to make a deal with the devil. We stood in an expensive hotel suite balcony overlooking Central Park, the metal grill molded in the shape of twisting black vines. Yellow cabs, tourists, and carriages driven by black horses paraded down the road beneath us. It was like being in a fairytale. “Help me.” The words fell, choppy in my tear-stained voice. His dark gaze swept over me. Assessing. “And what will you give me in return, princess?” he asked. “I’ll save you.” Again. Bolder. “I’ll save you.” He blinked. One side of his mouth curved upward in a wicked smile. “Do I look like I need to be saved?” “Yes.” My stomach clenched in dire panic. “And I know how.” Chapter 1 Ella I’m pasted to the wall of the grand ballroom at the American School of Opera’s Winter Ball eyeing champagne that I’m too young to drink. “Come on, Ella, talk to me. I’m getting bored.” My mom gives my shoulder a tap, cutting an attractive figure in her body-hugging black mermaid gown which plunges deep enough to reveal her new, enhanced set of boobs. “Don’t ignore me. You know I hate it.” “What happened to your phone?” I ask, returning my attention to the fanfic I was reading on my iPhone. My mind tries to latch onto the dreams, fantasies, and escapism those sentences provide me. Crowds make me uncomfortable. But stories can transport me away to someplace fantastical. Someplace isolated, with no eyes on me. With no words whispering in my ears. A place where I never made a deal with a devil to escape my biggest nightmare. Mom releases a frustrated grunt. “I’m sick of staring at a screen. It’s hurting my eyes.” “Then go schmooze with these powerful people. That’s what you came here to do, right?” “I guess,” she admits. Despite the fancy name, the Winter Ball is not a ball with elves and fairies and singing unicorns (which I would’ve loved). It’s an annual charity gala aimed at giving youngsters from disadvantaged backgrounds an opportunity to enter the elite and often impenetrable world of opera music. This year’s theme is ‘Belle-Époque dance’ with the invitations stating the dress code as ‘European Royalty Black Tie’. Which does not explain why Mom is parading around in a cheap-looking gown that screams modern. The rest of the crowd in the ballroom consists of middle-aged men and women who are patrons of the arts and have donated large sums of money to this cause. In this opulent crowd of legendary people, Mom barely draws any notice. The whole reason she donated to the society was to make friends with ‘influential people,’ but the elegant silver-haired ladies and men are far too socially prominent to care about a B-list actress who was famous ten years ago. “Also, why have you been staring at me like I have horns? Is it the dress I’m wearing?” I point to my clothing. Mom scrunches her nose in distaste at the frilly satin tulle gown that nearly swallows my body. It makes me look like a circus runaway but coupled with my minimal makeup, it completes the dowdy look I was aiming for. Prettiness, polish, and style are for girls who want to be noticed. Be desired. Be loved. I don’t want any of those things. “Do you think…Is that why nobody is talking to me? Because they think I’m with you?” Mom’s face pales. I’m guessing she didn’t consider that angle before she decided to stick to my side at the gala. I smack my dry lips together. “Probably.” “Since you made the effort of getting into that hideous dress and coming to a social gathering, why not talk to the people here? Make some connections for your mom.” “You know I’m not here to socialize,” I remind her. “I’m here for Francesca.” “She’s lucky to have a friend like you.” Mom puffs up her chest, looking around the room for a place to begin her social climbing expedition. “But you should meet more people.” “I don’t like talking to people.” I’m the very definition of a wallflower. Invisibility and willfully ignoring reality are my greatest skills. When one’s life depends on something, one gets the hang of it quickly. Given my mother’s star status, of course people were naturally curious about me when I was young. That’s why I changed my last name when I turned eighteen, to something nobody could link back to my parents. And I’ve taken all the precautions—no friends, no hanging out in celebrity/rich kid hotspots, no social media accounts, no showing off my wealth and privilege. I guess it also helps that I look nothing like my superstar mother and have stuck by my geeky over-permed hair, no makeup, and glasses (that I don’t need) combo all my life, despite being bullied for it in school. Mom’s lips turn in a delicate smile. “I suppose I should go and make some new connections then, like my agent told me to.” “Yeah. I need some peace and quiet so I can finish reading this fanfic.” Mom