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)
But I know his darkness.
Maybe it’s time they did too.
Chapter Fifteen
Mary-Belle
Something’s off when I get home later that day—at least I’m making progress and calling it home, right? It’s all I have, and while I’m pretty sure Ambrose’s mom, Susan, plots my death every night while she chugs her wine—she’s at least given me a space where I have a bed, clothes, a toothbrush that isn’t losing its bristles and actual food I’m allowed to eat.
We don’t talk to each other; in fact, the few times I’ve even seen her, she’s been sleeping on the couch with the TV on. She doesn’t get out much, stopped getting her nails and hair done. She’s spiraling, and I know Ambrose notices it, but there’s nothing either of us can do.
A therapist visited the other day, but Susan just stared into the blank space of nothingness and continued to drink.
Life is not perfect. It’s a lie. Ambrose’s life is a lie. And weirdly enough, he got exactly what he said he always wanted.
Brokenness.
The lawsuits are ongoing against the family company—talk of cover-ups is never a good look for any business, but I can’t imagine anyone speaking a word against the dynasty after the death of its CEO.
It’s bad to speak ill of the dead, but I think about him in those last minutes, the look of fear in his eyes as he reached for me with the same hands he used on his own son.
I hope he forgave himself for acting out of anger.
I’ve been slapped enough to know that it’s not just painful but demeaning as if you’re nothing but a thing, and he made his son feel that way. There is never an excuse to touch someone unless it’s in self-defense, least of all your son.
I got none of those words out when he was lying there; all I could think about was what would happen to Ambrose.
I gently put my bag on the tall white leather barstool and walk around the breakfast bar to grab a bottle of water and maybe a granola bar, it still feels weird to grab food from their pantry, but I’d starve if I didn’t.
It feels even weirder when I see cash on the counter with a sticky note, my name on it, as if to say, use our money, buy whatever you want.
I don’t know what’s going to happen in twenty-nine days though, so I keep the money in a jar under my bed—hoard it, really. So far, I have three grand. I’m hoping it’s enough to at least get me started away from this place just in case they don’t take care of me.
I mean, they owe me nothing.
And now that I’m eighteen and have had a full stomach from food, the thought actually makes me want to puke—not having food.
I remember getting free breakfast and lunch at my other schools and bringing ziplock bags so I could store the leftovers for later. The amount of cold tater tots I ate at night was astronomical. I’m still tempted to do it during lunch out of sheer habit, especially when they let me grab more than one burger.
It’s embarrassing but necessary.
I sigh and reach into the fridge. There’s no bottled water which is weird because the fridge is stocked on a weekly basis. I grab a diet coke instead and go to the pantry.
It too has a limited amount of food.
Something’s wrong.
I look around the house and notice that it’s super pristine—clean, just like the first time I was there.
Again, something’s off as I make my way toward the main living room. Susan isn’t there like she normally is. The blankets are all folded.
I walk further down the hallway and check the garage; maybe she left?
One of the sports cars is gone.
And it’s not Ambrose’s.
Frowning, I walk back into the house and the kitchen.
Ambrose is there, he’s leaning over the white granite, and he has a letter in his hands.
Maybe it’s from a family member?
I stop walking when he looks up at me, tears in his eyes.
Did we get sued again?
Did someone else die?
Is this family cursed?
He takes a deep breath and surprises me when his next words are. “Well, I guess now I know what it’s like to be an orphan.”
“What?” I ask, panic seizing my chest as he goes over to one of the many liquor cabinets, grabs a bottle of expensive-looking booze, and just sits on the marble floor in the kitchen. “What do you mean?”
“I hate you,” he says. “I hate me too.”
I don’t know how to answer that.
He pops the cap off and takes a swig. “Read it.”
I’m afraid to grab the piece of paper, but I do anyway. I pick it up and look at the fancy cursive.
I can’t do this anymore. There are too many memories. I moved to the penthouse in LA. You’re eighteen now anyway; you’ll be fine. Your father’s secretary will be in touch with the next steps. You look like him. I love you, but you look like him. I’m sorry. I just can’t be the mom you need right now. You have your uncle close by. And Mary-Belle can keep you company. I thought of buying you a cat or something. I know this comes across as a shock and harsh, but you’ve always been more of an adult than a teenager. Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.