The Kingston's were always more than a family.
They were a dynasty-ruling New York from the shadows, with power flowing through their veins for generations. Nothing happened in their city without their knowledge or control. It was a legacy of power...
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―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
'Non ducor, duco.' I am not led, I lead.
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
Vaughn Kingston
Reese's bedroom was still dark, even though it was almost eight in the morning. She wasn't a morning person. Neither was I, to be fair. If there was a way to stay in bed longer, we'd both take it.
But life rarely allows for that kind of luxury.
I crossed the room quietly, pulling open the curtains in one swift motion. Sunlight flooded in, washing over her space. The room suited her—elegant but simple, shades of gold, brown, and black. It had a sophistication that reminded me she was growing up. Yet, it lacked the personal touches of her room at the penthouse. Another reminder of why I should have just taken Reese and gone home by now.
I stood for a moment, letting the light filter through, grounding myself in the reality of why we were here. My father, despite our complicated relationship, had always been there. Especially after Reese's diagnosis. He never faltered when others pulled away. When things got tough—really tough—he stayed.
Turning back to the bed, I found her still asleep, buried under layers of blankets. She always overdid it, no matter the weather. I sat on the edge of her bed, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. It was a rare moment of quiet between us—softness I didn't show often, not even to her.
Her hair was a mess, as usual. No matter how neatly she went to sleep, she always woke up like she'd been in a wrestling match. The restlessness was one of the reasons we'd switched from the pump to insulin pens.
"Good morning, star," I said softly.
She groaned, rolling away from the light. "No, thank you," she mumbled. "Come back in three to six business days."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Reese had a way of pulling out the few traces of amusement left in me.
"That's not gonna work today," I replied, getting up to grab her blood sugar kit. I trusted the CGM, but some things were hard to let go of. "Hand."
Without opening her eyes, she stuck out her arm. I pricked her finger with practiced precision, keeping my face neutral. After all this time, I still hated it—hated that she had to deal with this routine every single day. But none of that showed.
"Is it okay?" she asked, blinking sleepily, her hair tangled around her face.
"A little low," I said, passing her a juice box and pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. It was a small gesture, private. "Drink up and get moving. You'll feel better once you're on your feet."
