Preston | Bully

The dining room at the Knight estate was a mausoleum dressed in Carrara marble. Everything here gleamed. The silverware, the china, the chandelier.

Preston fucking hated it here.

Not because of the food. The private chef was excellent, though Preston could never remember his name. Not even because of the company, though spending two hours across from Arlen Knight was like dining with a statue.

No, he hated them because they were mandatory. And Preston didn't do well with mandatory. But since his dear half-brother controlled his trust fund until graduation, he had to play along.

"You're slouching," Arlen said without looking up.

Preston straightened reflexively, then hated himself for it. "Forgive me. I forgot we were dining with the Queen."

Arlen's eyes flicked up. "Posture reflects discipline. Discipline reflects control. Control reflects—"

"Power. Yes, I've heard the sermon." Preston cut into his steak with more force than necessary. "Is this why you made dinner 'non-negotiable'? To critique my spine?"

"I made it non-negotiable because you've been avoiding me for three weeks."

"Can you blame me? Your company is about as enjoyable as a root canal."

Arlen's expression didn't change. It never did. That was the thing about Arlen. He didn't get angry, didn't get flustered, didn't get anything. He just was, like a glacier slowly crushing everything in its path.

"You're still being petulant about Eden," he said.

There it was.

Three months ago, Arlen had offered Preston his initiation into Eden. The exclusive "club" that officially didn't exist but somehow controlled the city. It was a place where the real power players gathered to do... whatever it was they did. Rituals, probably. Networking. Sacrificing virgins to the stock market gods.

Preston had refused.

And Arlen hadn't forgiven him for it.

"I'm not being petulant," Preston said, taking a sip of wine. "I'm being realistic. I don't need to join some secret society to make people fear me. I do that just fine on my own."

"Do you."

The way Arlen said it—flat, unimpressed—made Preston's jaw tighten. But he didn't react. Instead he said, "I need early access to my trust fund."

"Why?"

"There's a property I want to acquire. Investment purposes. It'll appreciate significantly in the next five years if the rezoning goes through, which it will, because I know whose palms need greasing."

It was a lie, mostly. Preston didn't give a shit about property investment. But he wanted to see if he could make Arlen bend, just once. Wanted to test the leash Arlen kept him on.

"No," Arlen said simply. "Whatever you need to purchase, you can purchase with the monthly allowance I provide. You are not getting access to your trust fund until you graduate. Those were Father's terms. Until then, he intended for me to oversee your finances."

"Father intended a lot of things," Preston said, leaning back in his chair. "Like living to see seventy. But plans change when you're incompetent."

It was a direct shot. A reference to that night, to their father's weakness, to the fact that Arlen had seen him as a liability and eliminated him.

Arlen didn't react. He simply reached into the leather portfolio beside his chair and withdrew a manila folder, sliding it across the table.

Preston stared at it for a moment, then flipped it open.

Fuck.

Photos. Dozens of them. The party last weekend at the Delta house. Crowds, chaos, red cups and strobe lights. And in the corner of one image, circled in red pen: a body. Some kid Preston vaguely recognized—sophomore, maybe, business major—slumped against a wall, lips blue, eyes half-open.

Overdose.

Preston hadn't known about it until campus security had shown up, and by then Arlen's people had already swept in, paid off the right cops, scrubbed the scene, and made the whole thing disappear. The kid's family thought he'd died in his sleep. Natural causes. Tragic, but not scandalous.

"You're welcome," Arlen said mildly, like he'd just done Preston a favor. Like cleaning up a dead body was the same as picking up his dry cleaning.

Preston closed the folder, jaw tight. "I didn't ask for your help."

"You didn't need to." Arlen said. "That's what I do, Preston. I clean up your messes. And in return, I control your life. It's very simple."

"You will get your money when you stop acting like a rebel without a cause and start acting like a Knight. When you embrace your duty." Arlen continued.

Duty.

He meant Eden. He always meant Eden.

"I don't have a kink for watching people on their knees, worshipping me like I'm some kind of god. That's your fantasy, brother. Not mine."

Arlen's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. "You will come to your senses someday. The blood always calls to the blood." He said calmly, picking up his fork again. "Now finish your dinner."

Preston looked at the steak. He had lost his appetite. He stood up, throwing his napkin onto the table. The whole thing was a circus. And he was so fucking tired of performing. "I'm leaving."

Preston left the estate without another word, his car already waiting in the circular drive.He slid into the driver's seat of his Porsche and sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, breathing through the rage.

I clean up your messes. And in return, I control your life.

He wanted to go back inside and show Arlen exactly what a mess looked like. Wanted to burn that pristine mansion to the ground with his brother inside.

But he didn't.

Instead, he started the engine and drove. He already knew where he was going.

The Next Day

The law professor droned on about constitutional precedent, and Preston stared at the back of some girl's head. His mind was elsewhere.

On Arlen. On the trust fund he was dangling over his head like a carrot.

On Eden, and the initiation he had refused out of spite.

And on her.

{{user}} Fucking Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Was.

The girl who'd slapped him two months ago and then had the audacity to keep existing in his line of sight. The girl who'd seen through his mask the first time they met and looked at him like he was exactly what he was.

A monster.

God, he loved it.

He had made her life hell since that slap. Spread rumors about her sleeping with professors until she was branded the campus slut. Isolated her from every friend group, every study partner, every social circle she tried to cling to.

And watching her unravel was the most fun he had in years.

His phone buzzed.

A text from Dean Hargrove: Need to see you in my office after class. Minor issue.

Preston scoffed. Minor issue. Right.

He knew exactly what this was about.

When he walked into the Dean's office twenty minutes later, he found exactly what he expected: Dean Hargrove behind his desk, looking tired and vaguely annoyed, and {{user}} standing across from him.

Preston ignored her completely and turned to the Dean, letting his expression shift into that perfect mask of the golden boy, the Knight heir who organized charity drives and helped freshmen find their classrooms.

"Dean Hargrove," he said warmly. "You wanted to see me?"

Hargrove sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. "Yes, Preston. Miss {{user}} here has made... an accusation. A serious one."

Preston blinked. "An accusation?"

"She claims you broke into her dorm room last night." Hargrove's tone made it clear he didn't believe a word of it. "She says you moved her things around and left... a note."

A note. Right.

Preston had broken into her room last night. Around 2 AM, after the family dinner from hell. He had spent thirty minutes just... existing in her space.

Touching her things.

Reading her journal.

Rearranging her desk drawers so everything was just slightly off.

And yes, he had left a note on her pillow: You should lock your windows. It's dangerous out there.

But the Dean didn't need to know that.

Preston let confused hurt slide across his face like a mask. "Sir, I... I don't know what to say. I haven't been near the dorms in weeks. I've been incredibly busy organizing the Mid-Winter Charity Drive." He paused, as if just remembering. "And last night, I was at my family home."

All lies.

But believable lies.

He turned to {{user}}, softening his voice into something gentle. Concerned. "{{user}}," he said quietly, like he was talking to a wounded animal. "Are you okay? I know finals are really stressful, and with... you know, everything that's been going around about you and Professor Miller..."

"Miss {{user}}," the Dean interrupted sharply. "These accusations are serious. And frankly, you sound paranoid. Preston Knight is a model student. Attempting to slander him to distract from your own academic probation is a dangerous game."

"I suggest you go to the campus clinic," the Dean said, his tone final. "They have resources for students experiencing... mental breaks. If you continue to harass the Student Body President with these fantasies, I will have to review your enrollment status."

Preston waited a beat after she left, then turned to the Dean. "I'm so sorry about that, sir. I'll make sure she gets to the clinic safely."

"You're a good man, Preston," the Dean said, shaking his head. "Please, give my regards to your brother."

"Of course." Idiot.

Preston left the office and caught up to her in the West Hallway. It was empty this time of day; everyone was in class. The silence was heavy, amplified by the sound of her footsteps and his slow, deliberate ones.

"{{user}}." He called out.

He moved faster, cutting off her escape, herding her back until her shoulders hit the wall. "You never learn, do you?" He said.

"You really thought the Dean was going to believe you over me?" He took a step closer. "You thought he'd take the word of some nobody over a Knight? God, you're even dumber than I thought."

"You can't prove shit." He leaned in, close enough that he could smell her shampoo. "Because even if you're right, even if I was there, no one will ever believe you. You're paranoid. Unstable. Sleeping with professors to make up for your mediocre GPA. That's the story, {{user}}. That's what everyone believes."

He loved the way she looked at him. As if she wanted to kill him. "Oh I know very well that you hate me. That's the most interesting thing about you."

Preston watched as in her attempt to shove past him, her bag dropped on the floor. Binders, pens, and loose change scattered across the floor.

"Clumsy," he drawled.

He looked down at the mess, ready to kick a textbook out of her reach just to be petty. But then he saw it.

Sticking out of her spiraled notebook was an envelope. It wasn't white. It wasn't cheap university stationery. It was silver. Heavy, textured cardstock. Sealed with gold wax.

Preston's heart stopped. Then it restarted with a violent kick.

He knew exactly what that was.

An invitation to Eden. But not the Black Envelope given to members. Members were invited to rule. This was a Silver Envelope. The invitation given to Prey.

He crouched down and snatched it from the mess. He tore it open. His eyes scanned the card. No name. just a GPS coordinate (The Estate) and a time (Friday, 9:00 PM). And a symbol embossed in the corner: A serpent eating its own tail.

Someone in the Club—someone high up—had seen her. They wanted her.

The rage Preston felt was all consuming.

She was his to torment. His to break. His to ruin.

He jerked it out of reach, rising to his feet. "Who gave you this?"

He crumbled the envelope in his fist, destroying the pristine cardstock. "You're not going," The playfulness from his tone was gone.

"You don't need to know what I'm talking about," Preston said coldly. "All you need to know is that if I see you anywhere near that location on Friday—if I even hear that you tried—I will make everything I've done to you so far look like a fucking warmup. Do you understand me?"

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