Richard's POV. 22.
My fists clenched so tight, my knuckles turned white. Luther. Just the name tasted like bile in my mouth. The way he carries himself, like he's untouchable, some damn god walking among us. It's irritating. I slammed my fist against the table, the impact sending a ripple of pain up my arm, but it barely registered.
"Richard, stop this nonsense!" My mother's voice, sharp and disapproving, cut through my rage. "Anger won't get you what you want!"
I rounded on her, my chest heaving. "Oh, is that right, Mother? Then what will, huh? What will get me even a sliver of what that damn bastard has?"
Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the shattered remains of her favorite vase, a delicate porcelain thing that now lay in fragments on the Persian rug.
"You even had to smash my bea
