Chapter 2: Games of Cruelty

Late at night, Preston called me to his beach house for no reason. He patted my shoulder and told me to swim with him. The beach was empty except for the distant winking lights of shrimp boats. The sand was cold under my bare feet, and the moon carved silver lines across the water. With Preston, you never knew what to expect—one minute you’re in bed, the next you’re standing at the edge of the freezing Atlantic.

The water was frigid. As soon as I got in, I sneezed, but I didn’t dare complain—I just gritted my teeth and swam after him. My breath came out in clouds, every stroke cutting like broken glass. Preston swam ahead, powerful and graceful, like he belonged out here. I could barely keep up, my limbs numb, but you don’t say no to a man like Preston.

“Actually, none of them get me. They all think I’m just a spoiled rich brat, evil and ruthless. Like Derek and those thugs—they call me Preston, but who knows what they say behind my back.” Preston handed me a towel. The porch light flickered overhead, and I wrapped the towel tighter, wishing I could crawl inside the mug of tea he pressed into my hands. He stood in the doorway, hair dripping, towel slung around his neck, looking every bit the golden boy the magazines loved.

“Mm.” I stood there shivering. Facing someone so unpredictable, I didn’t dare say much. My jaw chattered and my mind raced for the safest answer. Sometimes it was best just to blend into the furniture.

“You’re not like the others, Marcus. You’ve got lines you won’t cross. I respect that—most days.” Preston wiped his hair, walked to the table, poured a cup of hot lemon tea, and handed it to me. The tea burned my tongue, but it felt like heaven. For a second, I thought maybe he actually meant what he said.

“I... I don’t really get it.” I fumbled, unsure if this was some new game or a rare, honest moment. With Preston, you could never really tell.

“You’ve followed me for so long. No matter what I offered, you never did a single bad thing. That means you’re loyal. My old man once said, people who are loyal to their own hearts are the ones worth trusting.” Preston looked away, out the window where the tide was rolling in. There was a flicker of something almost like sadness, but it vanished before I could name it.

No matter what he said, I didn’t dare tell him what I was really thinking. It’s not loyalty that keeps me here—it’s necessity. But I bit my tongue. Sometimes silence is the only safe move.

After so long around him, I knew what kind of person he was. A tyrant who treats everyone as a plaything. How could someone like that ever see anyone as a friend? I held the cup tighter, letting the steam fog up my glasses, hiding my eyes.

Before I left, Preston handed me a check. The check was crisp, his signature bold. I wanted to thank him, to spit in his face, to run. Instead, I just nodded and let the weight of it settle in my chest. He said, “Find a better hospital for your sister. I’ll be going overseas in a few days. I’ll help you look for any good treatment options abroad.” He said it like he was loaning me a pencil, not tossing me a lifeline.

My heart trembled. I wanted to thank him, but he just smiled at me and went upstairs. For a second I stood there, clutching the check like a kid with a golden ticket, feeling like I’d sold off another piece of myself.

The next day, Preston’s plan began. He always worked fast. When he decided on a target, he never waited around.

For a second-generation rich kid like him, luxury cars, watches, yachts, and celebrities were already boring—he’d played with all that as a teenager. After taking over part of the family business, his greatest hobby became “tormenting human nature.” He’d talk about it the way people talk about fantasy football, except there were real lives on the line.

A particularly cruel pastime. Some guys collect vintage records; Preston collects ruined lives.

That righteous young journalist, because he’d reported on Hawthorne Holdings’ scandal, was fired from his newspaper the next day. Out of work, he searched everywhere for a new job. He was competent, but no paper would hire him. As soon as interviewers saw his name, they’d ask him to leave. Word spreads fast in this town—one wrong move and the door slams in your face, again and again.

The journalist had a fiancée. They’d been together for over ten years, planning to marry at Christmas. Because of the scandal, the wedding was postponed. While the journalist was desperately job-hunting, a man entered his fiancée’s life—one of Preston’s lackeys, the former top male escort, Tyler. Tyler knew how to win women’s hearts, showered her with expensive gifts and sweet words, and quickly won her over. She met Tyler at a rooftop bar downtown, the kind of place where the drinks cost more than your car payment. Tyler was the kind of guy who could sell sand in the desert, all charm and white teeth.

The woman wanted to break up with the journalist, but Tyler stopped her, lying that he had a wife and could only be her secret lover. He even encouraged her to go ahead and marry the journalist. The woman, intoxicated by Tyler’s affection, agreed. She was caught in a web she never saw being spun.

On the journalist’s wedding night, he received videos from Tyler—clips of his wife cheating with Tyler, in cars, in public bathrooms, even on their own bed. In the videos, the woman moaned about how good Tyler was while ridiculing the journalist’s incompetence. It was the kind of thing that would break anyone. The whole thing felt like a bad reality TV show, except no one changed the channel.

The happiest day of the journalist’s life became his personal hell. I heard he collapsed at the reception, face white as the tablecloths. Some people whispered it was food poisoning. I knew better.

Bloodshot, he demanded to know why his wife did this. The smell of spilled champagne and sweat hung in the air as he demanded answers. She, seeing everything falling apart, lashed out and said if Tyler didn’t have a wife, who would marry a loser like you? The journalist grabbed her by the throat. Sensing danger, she begged for mercy. Remembering their old feelings, he let go—but then she grabbed a steak knife and stabbed at him. The sight of blood snapped something inside him, and he finally lost control. The wedding cake was still on the table when the sirens started blaring outside.

This is Preston’s favorite game—a sick pastime that turns people into animals. He’d once called it “human chess,” but there were never any winners, just broken pieces swept off the board.

That honest, passionate, unyielding young journalist killed his wife in a frenzy on his wedding night. Covered in blood, he staggered into the street, trying to find Tyler—who was hiding out in another city—for revenge, but was arrested by police before he could get far. As he was shoved into the police car, he howled—raw, broken, the kind of sound that makes dogs bark and neighbors lock their doors. The whole neighborhood heard it—people peeked through blinds, crossing themselves or shaking their heads, saying, “Lord, have mercy.”

The next morning, Preston clapped and laughed as he read the news, eyes gleaming with pride, like he’d finally gotten the toy he’d always wanted. He looked at me, grinning, and said, “See? Everyone’s got a breaking point.”