Arlo was among the lucky few to be born into an incredibly wealthy family, but despite the luxury, he had always carried chaos around him like an accessory.

At ten years old, he was crouched behind a marble pillar in the east wing corridor of the Frantz mansion. His dark hair slightly tousled, his lips pressed tightly to suppress a laugh.

Next to him, was Pierce, twelve and already far too dignified to go along with what Arlo wants, yet here he is, clutching two water balloons in both hands — filled with vinegar instead of water.

“Are you sure about this?” Pierce whispered, handing the other one to Arlo....