Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 142664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
I put the phone away and went to lie down. I have to think. “Shut that fucking brat up.” Oh, it’s the nanny’s day off. Whatever, he’ll stop when he gets tired.
ALYSSA
“I’m rich. I’m fucking rich. Not upper-middle-class rich, but fuck stupid wealthy out the ass rich.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How did this happen?” We were standing in front of the Hermes store on Faubourg Saint Honore, and it hit me.
I’ve shopped in high-end stores before; granted, I never paid over one hundred thousand dollars for a purse before and never planned to. I’ve been given immaculate treatment in said stores over the years, but what I just experienced is nowhere near the same.
I think if I had asked one of those women in there to wipe my nose, she would’ve done it with a gilded tissue. I didn’t even see the inside of the store. Who knew there was a whole other private room separate from the store?
I was placed in that room with curtains blocking me off from what I thought were other rich bitches, but no, there was no one else there but us. No one else was allowed. Those curtains were to give Garrett and me privacy.
Forget a glass of mid-range champagne; we were offered a whole damn bottle of some three-hundred-year shit that I’d never heard of. And then the bags. They didn’t bring out the regular leather bags, which I always thought you had to order and were always on an extremely long waiting list.
They brought all the exotic leather bags, all of which were above one-hundred-thousand dollars, and I almost swallowed my damn esophagus. Apparently, Garrett had called his Mom, who had called the store ahead of time.
Those bags had been held there for her and her daughter’s perusal, and she’d given me first dibs. By the time we left there, I didn’t want even one, but my husband bought three. I’ll have to have a talk with him about finances and throwing away money. Though those bags are kickass.
I was done shopping, or at least I wanted to be done, but he had other ideas. Tiffanys, Cartier, and the list goes on. Meanwhile, Paris still smells like ass and three-hundred-year-old piss.
It reminded me of the senior year trip that I almost didn’t get to go on because Mitzie pitched a fit. Because she didn’t do as well and had to take summer classes, I guess she thought I shouldn’t get to go either. But there were two things wrong with that.
One, I was eighteen, so Dad had no more say in my life, and two, my Mom could more than afford it. In the end, he had paid for it after a visit from my brothers, which I now suspect was probably just for show. They had to pretend to strong-arm him in front of her and her mother in order to give in without having to hear their shit.
“Oh, this just pisses me off.”
“What’s that love?” We were in the back of the car heading to dinner after marathon shopping. “I was just thinking about my senior trip,” I told him about it, as well as some other delightful stories from my past.
Like when Mitzie and Helen didn’t want Dad to pay for college, I went to school on a full ride, but my brothers had lived off campus, and I wanted to do the same. That had always been the plan, but when it came to my turn, Helen made a stink.
There were so many other stories like those, and I filled him in on all of them. “You remember it so clearly. Did you keep these things in a journal?”
“I used to write everything down when I was little. Then, one day, Mitzie found one of my earlier diaries and tried to show it to her mother.”
“I realized after knocking the hell out of her to get it back that I could use it as a weapon. So, I started writing shit that was nowhere near the truth and leaving it for them to find.”
“I learned very early on that people react to emotion. If someone read your diary and it is filled with hateful words about them, they’d hate you. If they read heartfelt words of praise, even the coldest heart will be touched.”
“They’d still kill you, but they’d be touched. This is why I got rid of my earlier journals. Because I knew if anyone read those thoughts from back then, they would never understand the pain and anger written on those pages, and they would take offense.”
“So, when I wanted to make Helen pissed, which u knew she would take out on Dad, I’d write shit about her. All the things she’d done to me that day, which was only good when Dad or my brothers were around. Once they were gone, she’d show her ass.”