Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Panic seizes my chest. “Is it Dad?”
“No,” she says quickly.
“Grandpa?”
“We’ll talk in the car.” Is all she says when we leave the office. I’m a little bit shook up as we make it to the red Lambo SUV she drives around.
She still refuses to let me drive any of the sports cars to school ever since crashing my brand-new BMW last year after taking a corner too fast.
How was I supposed to know there would be a stupid rabbit out of nowhere?
We drive through Eagle and into the Boise foothills, and she still says nothing as we drive around the mountain and to the black front security gate to our house.
“Mom.” My voice cracks. “What’s going on?”
“My sister—your aunt was in an accident. She didn’t make it.” Her voice is hoarse. “As you know she couldn’t have kids and had just decided to start fostering a young girl.”
“Okay…” My mind is spinning. Is this what the guys were talking about?
“Anyway…” She sniffles and pulls around the driveway. “If we don’t take her in—she goes back into the system, and she’s lived a very rough life, you don’t have any siblings.”
I’m stunned stupid. What the hell? “Charity,” I say. “We’re doing charity so Dad looks good. Why am I not surprised?”
She cuts the engine. “You know how much I loved my sister.”
“You saw her twice a year.” I point out. “Last time you fought over which plastic surgeon was better, and she threw wine in your face.”
“She wasn’t herself.” Mom looks away. “Your dad pulled a few strings, and we were able to cut through some red tape and take her in.”
“Does the long-lost princess have a name?” I sneer like the asshole I am.
Mom grabs her purse and checks her lipstick. “Mary-Belle.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course it is.”
“Be nice.” Mom snaps. “She’s a little… overwhelmed.”
I look over at my three-story mansion with its seven waterfalls, strategically parked sports cars, and brick driveway and shake my head. “No. Shit.”
Chapter Two
Mary-Belle
I’m petrified I’m going to break something.
I knew when Sarah took me in that she had money, and quite honestly, I didn’t care at the time because I was so done carrying around a black trash bag from house to house and getting leered at by some of the men I was forced to live with.
Some were great.
But I always had my guard up, you just never know, and after one bad experience, you tend to brace yourself for another and another until all you have are shields up like a damn Star Trek episode while the Klingons go full phasers
I may also be a huge Trekkie with zero shame, but the example still works.
I’m holding a brand-new iPhone in my right hand, staring down at it and trying not to look up all the news stories they warned would come out about me.
I’m the shiny new charity case.
With her shiny new phone.
And I get to go to a shiny new private school on top of that—starting tomorrow—with what I can only imagine has some of the most stuck-up people on the planet attending.
People who don’t know what it’s like to starve.
Or what it’s like to sleep with the lights on, just in case.
I twirl my long blonde braid to keep my other hand occupied and take a deep breath as Mr. McCree paces in front of me on his phone.
I hear phrases like. “Money is no object. Get it done. I want it delivered now.” And then he’s covering up the phone and asking if I like pink.
I almost laugh but shrug instead.
My foster mom is dead, and I’m sitting with a black trash bag at my feet. And he wants to know if I like pink.
Can’t I just say a bed would be nice, maybe a pillow so I can scream into it and then cry?
I keep a polite smile on my face as he talks. And freeze up when the front door opens and footsteps sound.
I don’t know why but the hairs on the back of my arms stand on end as the smell of expensive cologne wafts by me.
He salutes his dad before going to the immaculate kitchen, grabbing a water, and looking toward me.
I find a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that he chokes a bit as we make eye contact.
And his eyes are—beautiful.
A glassy dark blue that seems to almost reflect my exact same panic. His hair color is a shade of amber and gold that makes him look like the prince he is, and of course, it’s shaved high up on the sides with potentially perfect man bun execution if he wanted.
He looks like a younger version of David Beckham.
He’s wearing a black and white school uniform with a crown crest on the jacket, and his tie is tugged almost completely off like he was nervously pulling it the entire drive to the house.