𝘀𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗹 𝘁𝗼 '𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿' book 2 of 3
on the outside, looking in, bianca prescott was back to who everyone knew her as- kook princess, island royalty, who couldn't give less of a fuck about the pogues like they were poo on her jimmy choo's.
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Let it be known, that Bianca Prescott had always been this way. No, let's rephrase–– she was raised this way. Growing up in a world where the only way to escape the sneers of disgust, icy stares and wax smiles was to climb the hierarchies of society, Bianca made it her life's mission to never be looked down upon.
With a mother whose exorbitant expectations were impossible for a young girl like herself to meet and a father whose business endeavours were only intended to be exceeded by her in the future, it was only a matter of time before Bianca cracked under the pressure of it all.
She was slipping, like clay left in the kiln too long, her perfectly painted facade cracking on the surface. But beneath the mask was another story entirely. Her soul flickered like the dying embers of a wildfire and there she sat, a still pure child, the embodiment naivety and hope, desperately trying to keep it alight. For the little lustre left in Bianca's heart was dimming and lurking in the shadows, awaiting to annihilate the flame, was a rage so ink-black and wretched that it sent the fire itself cowering away.
What was to become of it could only be dreaded, a tragic and fatal end for those who ever did her wrong. You see, the world had never been kind to Bianca Prescott. It was ironic really, how she could have everything she ever wanted at the snap of her dainty fingers and nothing all at the same time. Because despite her family's seemingly endless wealth and high social standing amongst the island's most elite, Bianca could not ignore that her ex-boyfriend was a murderer, her father was an accessory in the crime and her best friend was dead as a fucking doornail.
Bianca had every reason, every excuse to throw her middle finger up at the world and tell it to go fuck itself because it had never been merciful or welcoming or even a little bit apologetic. But she was neither meek nor did she need the world's apologies, because her conscience was blind, her morality skewed and she had a vendetta against every single person on her hit list.
"Welcome home, B."
Bianca scoffed under her breath, what a joke. If this summer taught her anything, it was that this was no longer her home, not while Michael lived under its high ceilings, crystal chandelier and marbled flooring.
She glanced over her shoulder as the man, dressed in a dark suit and rolled her eyes as he pulled her luggage after him. She hadn't forgotten his crimes, as much as he wished her to. Bianca didn't know if she could ever truly forgive him for helping cover up the murders of Big John Routledge and Sheriff Suzan Peterkin.
Hearing the squeaky roll of her suitcase wheels against the tiles, Lydia emerged from the hallway, dressed as elegantly as ever. Her platinum hair had been pulled back in a low bun, dark roots slowly emerging. Two strands framed her face in soft curls and her lips tilted up into a smile, "Bianca," She cooed, opening her arms up for her daughter.
