The scream could have shattered crystal, fine china, and whatever remained of the Heavenchild family's already fragile sanity.
Two voices, perfectly synchronized that had been synchronized since the womb — rose in pitch until they achieved a frequency that threatened structural damage to the east wing of the estate.
"WE'RE GOING?!"
Paige had Brielle's hands. Brielle had Paige's hands. They were jumping. Seventeen-year-old Immediate daughters of the most powerful family on Earth, reduced to a pair of squealing, blonde-haired disasters bouncing on Brielle's four-poster bed like it was a trampoline at a discount carnival.
Their bare feet sank into Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than most people's monthly rent, blonde hair flying in wild halos, faces flushed with pure, unfiltered delirium. Their hot bodies moved with unrestrained energy — full, perky breastsbouncing heavily beneath thin silk camisoles that did almost nothing to contain them.
