DISCLAIMER: i do not own any of this stuff, belongs to R&R

WARNINGS: Features swearing, drug use, underage drinking, the works.

PAIRINGS: Percabeth, Jasper, Frazel, RachelxApollo (slight), RachelxOctavian (slight), Solangeo, Jeyna (past), Perachel (past), Lukabeth (past)

ENJOY!

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL

Rachel Dare began her morning by being spread out on the massage chair as she read the article on her iPad, "Dare and Jackson Still Together?"

Her lips pursed as she scoured through the article, partially amused and partially annoyed at the assumptions and elaborate stories claimed about how they had not seen her in the spotlight so far, especially since she had not been out and about the city's cement streets or high-profile gala city events with her supposed-to-be boyfriend, Percy Jackson.

Her mouth soured at the thought of her boyfriend, as he had been the reason why she had been needing a spa morning in the first place. The main reason why she hadn't been in the mood to see her so-called beloved boyfriend recently was because she had run across a text that popped up on his phone, which had an unknown number texting her boyfriend: Waldorf tonight babe? ;)

Nonetheless, she had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since- read and never replied to every one of his texts, turned him away and avoided all his hotspots and hung up on every call and piling up her voicemail inbox.

"Harder," grunted Rachel as she closed the tab on her article, unable to read anymore frivolous gossip circulating her and Percy's relationship and the future of the possible Jackson-Dare collaboration of their father's companies. It's really funny how much people want to stick their noses into her business and make discursive claims about her unexpected withdrawal from the public eye.

There were rumours theorised about how she must be somewhere in the Bahamas, on a private beach and sipping on a Mai Tai as she looked out to the turquoise shores and dug her feet in the warm golden sun...and definitely not locking herself up in her 35, 000 square feet penthouse, walking around aimlessly in her Cosabella PJ set and stuffing her face in Milano cookies to aid her embarrassment and heartbreak.

Yep, definitely not.

She discarded the iPad at the glass table beside her massage table and allowed herself to soak in the calm atmosphere by burying into the soft Egyptian cotton beneath her as the masseuse poured hot lavender oil all over her back and pushed her expert fingers into Rachel's knots, rubbing the stressed joints in her body. Rachel closed her eyes and drifted off to a small nap as the comforting therapy music tinkled over the overhead speakers and a miasma of jasmine and lavender wafted around the ambience surrounding her.

When Rachel woke up, the masseuse had tapped her softly on the shoulder, "We have finished, Miss Dare."

Already? Rachel sighed, stretching each slender finger. "Thank you."

She didn't want it to be over; she just wanted to spend hours after hours and allowing her stress to melt off her shoulders but alas, she was Rachel Dare and she was not the type who wallow herself in misery. Her father was Warren Dare, for god's sake, and she herself was a Dare by blood as well. She had learned how to strut through hell with grace and class and bury her own emotions inside a locked box. Her mother had taught her that since she could talk.

"You may leave," she instructed the kind-faced Asian masseuse and grabbed her green silk slip to wrap around her body before heading out towards the breakfast set her maid had put out for her.

The breakfast set was a three-tiered cake stand, displaying a delectable collection of the finest pastries, tea cakes, sandwiches and jars of clotted cream and strawberry jam. It had been placed on an Italian glass coffee table, near the scattered paperwork of Wall Street Journal and event magazines, and dominated as the centrepiece of Rachel's immaculately clean living room, where daylight filled the deserted $82 million dollar penthouse and overlooked Hong Kong's skyline and Victoria Harbour.

There was no one in sight but her and no audible noise except for the sound of her Neiman Marcus cashmere slippers slapping the floor. Not even regular everyday noises, like the air-conditioning buzz or the high-tech security apparatuses installed over her property; just the same thickening silence that echoed through the halls since her father's scandal.

Her father hadn't been back to visit her in Hong Kong ever since the news broke out five months ago when the sexual harassment claims dominated every page of the Wall Street Journal and the New Yorker and headlines such as 'DARE ABUSES UNDERAGED EMPLOYEES' were seen everywhere she went. Though Warren Dare's lawyers had conjured a perfectly well-executed excuse of how those employees were just trying to seek monetary compensation and won the court battle, everybody knew that the court of public opinion was the one that mattered. Her reputation- and her family's- was officially tarnished and the damage was done.

Rachel hadn't seen her father in Hong Kong- or rather, in her penthouse- ever since it happened. He must have been out of the country or hide out at Dare Towers, drowning himself in work to rehabilitate the Dare image.

"Juniper," she called out, her voice ringing across the marble tiles of her home as she plucked a walnut scone, tore it apart and began to spread jam on the flakey crust. Juniper stumbled out of the kitchen quarters at Rachel's beck and call, looking profusely confused at Rachel's request. "I'm going to head out after this to get some coffee."

"Of course, Miss Dare," Juniper said, bowing promptly.

"Please, Miss Dare is my mother's name," Rachel said, "Call me Rachel. Rach, if you want."

"Of course, um...Rachel," Juniper quickly ducked her head back into the kitchen quarters, leaving Rachel to unfold today's issue of The Wall Street Journal as she ate her breakfast.

When she was finally done, she went to her room to throw on a quick pair of clothes- a champion of Calvin Klein's cuffed capri pants, a Wildfox vintage tee shirt and a pair of Tieks ballet pumps- before heading out. It was an understated outfit- simple enough for a quick coffee run but not too much of a mess that if the magazines did catch her running around the city, she wouldn't have an explosive phone call from her mother- the fear-inducing Felicia Dare herself- about her clothing choices and how 'she presented herself matter'.

Nonetheless, she zipped down to the apartment lobby where her driver was waiting in her new Lincoln, which was the car her mother gave her for scoring full straight As on her IGSCEs, which guaranteed her a definite slot in HKIS prestigious IB program. It was almost like a limo, fully equipped with a mini bar and an L-shaped seating. She grabbed an ice tea from the fridge and placed it on the wood grain vinyl shelf beside her as the car gunned to life and Rachel checked her messages, only to frown to find that her boyfriend-but-not-boyfriend Percy Jackson had texted her again.

Whatever I did, Red, I'm sorry. I love you. Please, let me take you out to Waldorf and make it up to you.

Rachel rolled her almond-shaped eyes and pursed her small cupid bow lips as her iPhone hovered above her in her slender fingers. Usually, his utilisation of his nickname for her 'Red' would melt her into goo but she wasn't fifteen and stupid anymore.

Feeling a little vengeful, she opened up his message and left him on read. "Piece of shit," she muttered. Cold shoulders and passive aggressive methods would never be enough to soothe the burns that he left on her heart. That message was the final straw- the third time she stumbled upon evidence of his infidelity, even after he swore his heart that he would never do it again.

Rachel wondered when did she and Percy had got so messed up in the first place. Last year, everything was so peaceful and wonderful and she felt genuinely in love. But in the last few months, pieces and pieces of Percy's flings with other girls in all the other private schools across Hong Kong began to surface and Rachel couldn't deny the truth anymore.

They met in third grade and instantly best friends, as they realised they were both native New Yorkers who found home in each other's company in a foreign country like Hong Kong. Of course, Rachel grew to love Hong Kong as she matured for all its craziness and beauty- the powerfully red lanterns that strung up everywhere on Chinese New Year, the wonderful policy of never carding foreigners when it came to purchasing alcohol, the glitzy and glamorous parties that ruled the social scene, the nihilism surrounding the nightlife- but Rachel saw home in Percy.

When they reached thirteen, it was natural for them to develop feelings for each other and start dating, much to the expectations and delight of their fathers. She remembered a time when he used to make her feel special and shower her with endless gifts. Rachel's eyes lingered on the Tiffany bracelet that was currently linked around her delicate wrist and her lips twitched. She remembered when she couldn't spend a minute without texting him and withstanding his horrible puns, learning about his quirks and enduring many special insane memories together. The first time they went to their first major penthouse party when they were fourteen, their first kisses under the influence of White Russians and the crowd's screams, the first time they puked their stomachs out on the floor of a Presidential suite in the Ritz Carlton, the first time they tried out LSD and tripped out so bad they swore they would never touch the drug ever again, the first time they declared their love and had sex…

A lump formed in her throat. The same lump Rachel had when she spent the whole night tossing and turning in her Egyptian cotton sheets after she saw that text on his phone. Rachel rescinded into her seat and closed her eyes as if it would help bleach away all the memories like a super strong detergent on a massive stain.

I wish I can make you hurt as much as you hurt me, Percy Jackson. Rachel bitterly thought as she gingerly sipped on her Iced Tea.

However, luckily for Rachel, the weapon of revenge fell directly on Rachel Dare's lap when she spilt her caramel macchiato all over the polo shirt of a random foreign girl in the middle of the mall.

Rachel's weapon came in the form of a certain grey-eyed blonde, an innocent fresh face in the crowd, so blatantly nouveau riche that Percy Jackson would never ever consider what was up to her sleeves.

NICO

There was a saying about how the rich left the poor to burn but sometimes having it all was really the malicious way of the universe tearing you apart, cell by cell, atom by atom. It would take the little things first so that you only feel a nagging sensation, but then it's in chunks and chunks and chunks until there was absolutely nothing.

The stiff material of his Armani blazer was starting to feel as it could cut off his circulation, making Nico miss the soft feel of his favourite vintage leather jacket.

"Nico, stop it," His half-sister hissed. It was a sibilant sound that snaked up his ears. Nico's eyes floated towards her. Hazel's amber gaze met his. "Pay attention."

Nico pursed his lips. He didn't want to look up. Looking up would mean staring at her picture in the face and Nico didn't know if he could handle that. He moved his head up and just like he predicted, the picture of his dead sister was smiling, winking at him.

"We are here today to gather for the loss of…" Nico tuned the preacher's voice out. His glower shifted on the monotonous preacher draped in black robes as his somberly addressed the crowd of mourners. Just as the preacher was about to recite a passage from the Bible, Nico could hear the light patter of the early morning rain turning into a torrent. The wind bayed with violence against the sides of the church and was accompanied by the low rumbling of distant thunder.

Nico shivered, remembering how it was also raining on her last day. Except Nico doubted that rain in Italy was ever massively heavy, not like the pouring storms they get in Hong Kong. But still, the rain brought back memories of the last day she had on Earth. She had seemed happy and normal that day, putting on a very-Bianca disposition- fighting with him over the last delectable macaron their maid- Alecto- had whipped up in the kitchen, in which she had given to him with a huff and an eye roll. Afterwards, they made up by deciding they would spend the morning lazing around and binging Sherlock since it was the school summer holidays after all. In the afternoon, she said she was going to go over to Zoe's house to have lunch and hang out with her, only for Nico to later realise she had gone off to pick up hydrocodone for some shady dealer in order to imbibe the whole bottle and to an extent, kill herself.

Guilt expanded in his throat. He should've let her had the last macaron- he should've-

There was nothing you could do.

His stomach squeezed in on itself, ready to make him throw up if he let it. His eyes flickered back to Bianca's smiling picture. She looked so beautiful, ethereal almost, and Nico couldn't help but think about being back in his HL Literature class, where they were discussing the poetic beauty of Ophelia in Shakespeare's tragedy Hamlet. He did found Bianca dead in her bed in their empty marble apartment in Hong Kong, surrounded by a laurel wreath of flowers she had thrown onto the silky sheets of her bed. It could've been interpreted as erotic- roses, poppies, with Bianca's sleeping corpse spread out in open arms and upward gazes and whatnot- but it was almost...in a sense nebulous, passive and almost accepting towards the smiling Grim Reaper himself.

Sometimes, Nico wished he didn't think so much.

"Italy's nice, isn't it?" Hazel murmured as they exited out of Piazza San Marco and entered into a cafe that went by the name of Caffe Florian to escape the rain, as well as for Hazel to sample the Venetian coffees she had been dying to try since it was the 'world's oldest cafe'.

Nico sighed as he inhaled the scent of Italian coffee beans roasting in the machines and the sight of American tourists in tacky white tour group shirts and their screaming children. Despite Hazel's affluence and influence as a daughter of one of the richest European billionaires, she acted like a middle-class tourist by always forcing him to seek out these tourist magnet locations, which Nico hated because he felt as it interrupted with the authentic feel of the country's culture- especially when it came to Venice, as it was his hometown.

"I don't understand why we have to go to this place," Nico grumbled, "It's too...touristy. If you want authentic Italian coffee, I know places that won't sell you some overpriced piece of shit."

"Oh, whatever, Nico," Hazel rolled her eyes, whipping out her Chanel Velvet lipstick and reapplying it over her lips. Now her lips were this deep burgundy colour, making her look super Wednesday Adams with her frizzy hair in twin Dutch plaits and her preppy Zac Posen black funeral collar dress. "Look at this place, it's beautiful! Even if it's full with massive Chinese tour groups snapping pictures at everything, I don't care. Besides, you're a history buff. Don't you want to sample your coffee at the world's oldest cafe?"

Caffe Florian was awash in dim lighting to fit with its Neo-Baroque splendour in order to truly sell the We're-A-Cafe-That-Was-In-The-1700s gimmick. There was the ubiquitous smell of coffee lingering in the air and white-coated garçons circled customers. The place was decked out in white-and-bronze checkered floors, 19th-century wall panels depicting classical paintings of Italian war heroes and of course, the boisterous Chinese tour groups that were no longer a rare sighting when it came to European tourist attractions.

"Let's go to the bar," Nico muttered to Hazel.

"You're such an alcoholic," she remarked but led the way into the back of the cafe, where it was an open threshold guaranteeing entrance to a darker, slightly more romantic restaurant. Rattan chairs were replaced by lush velvet red chairs with gold trimmings. Everything seemed to be draped in gold, almost uninterrupted by the presence of tourists with their massive shopping bags and their too-large cameras. Instead, the locals replaced the scene. A woman coolly smoking her cigarette in the corner, drinking a cocktail in a pretty glass as she read a book and a man jabbering faintly in Italian on his phone. A clarinet player stood by the podium, serenading it all.

They sat themselves down, watching the world outside rain as tourists had deserted the cobbled street for shelter in cafes and bars, snacking on Italian pastries and sipping bitter coffee as they waited for the torrent to stop. The streets were devoid of local Italian mothers keeping eyes on their kids as they scooter along the sidewalks, vendors at outdoor stalls hawking fruits and vegetables and of course since it was Venice- lovers wrapping their arms around each other as cameras snap.

The waiter approached them. Nico ordered an Iced Amaretto coffee, which had enough Baileys spiked into it to petrify a horse, and even Hazel ordered a Bellini. Nico raised his eyebrows as he handed his 'ID' to the waiter.

"What?" Hazel chuckled lightly, despite the sombre morning. "I need a little buzz too."

The waiter returned his 'ID' and nodded, approving it and then asked Hazel for hers in badly accented English. Nico refused the conscious urge to grin lightly as Hazel sweetly smiled and whipped out her own ID, another Piper Mclean original.

Piper Mclean had truly outdone herself when it came to faking her way with IDs- or whoever her 'guy' was. Nico distinctly remembered the memory of when he was fourteen and approached the French heiress to a multi-billionaire fashion company for an ID. She didn't even blink when he asked, only to deliver his brand new sparkling ID the next day and charge him a hundred and fifty dollars in return.

"You want some ice cream as well?" Hazel cleared her throat, browsing through their menu. "I think...you know after this morning, we need some."

Nico nodded speechlessly, hoping the sickly sweetness of excess calories would help alleviate the pit in his stomach but he doubted it. He shifted his attention to the outside world of the tinted windows, where the docked gondolas are attached to ropes by the canal's pier, which all rippled in the raining breeze. Down the expanse of it, Nico could see a series of arched lagoons and bridges, draped like expensive bracelets over an elegant wrist. Even in rain, Venice was still achingly beautiful, breathing out art, history and culture.

"You okay?" The solemn expression on Hazel's face knotted Nico's heartstrings and Nico said stop being so gloomy, you're worrying her.

"No, not really," Nico exhaled loudly as the waiter delivered their drinks. Nico mumbled Thanks in his badly accented Italian and the waiter waltzed off to serve others. He brought the fancy Old Fashioned glass to his lips, embracing the caffeinated liquid and savouring the sweet taste that accompanied the bitter Italian beans, then the alcoholic burn going down his throat as an aftertaste.

"I know," Hazel squeezed his fingers, "It's just…"

"Hard to believe," Nico finished for her. "I didn't even know she was suicidal. She seemed…"

"Happy," Hazel said, with a resounding silence.

But Nico knew that nothing, especially in this life of the rich and the dysfunctional, that nothing was like it seemed.

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