So original
Brat princess
I’m not a brat.
I beg to differ, but okay, princess, it is.
Our flight got delayed, so we didn’t get back into town until midnight, which I was grateful for. The thought of facing Abigail made my stomach churn, even though she was kind enough to keep Loco another day. I needed quiet. Stillness. A moment to breathe in the aftermath of what this whole trip became. Nick must’ve sensed it—of course he did—because he gave me space last night. No questions. No lingering glances. Just silence… and God, somehow, even that felt intimate.
My fingers trembled as I reached for my toothbrush. The shake in my hands wasn’t subtle anymore—it was a full-body hum. Nerves, adrenaline, fear, excitement. Everything crashed into me at once like a storm breaking inside my skin. My muscles wouldn’t stop twitching. Maybe it should’ve been the wine, but I hadn’t had a single drink last night. For the first time in six months, I wanted to feel everything—no dull edges. No haze. I needed to remember what it felt like to stand inside my own body and not crumble.
Today, I had to sell a fantasy.
I stared into the mirror, brushing my teeth like it was some ritual armor. I told myself I could do this. Lie. Smile. Pretend. Hell, I’d been doing it since I was thirteen. Only this time, the lie was mine. Not his. Not my stepdad’s, with his twisted words and filthy hands. Not my mom’s, with her diamond-studded denial. Mine. And this lie—this one—offered me something better: freedom. Safety. A way out.
And maybe even the faintest, most dangerous glimmer of something that felt like hope.
I spat the toothpaste, wiped my mouth, and walked to my suitcase. Every piece of clothing I pulled out felt wrong. Too casual. Too dressy. Too revealing. Too much. Too exposed. What the hell did someone wear to their first fake Thanksgiving as a fake wife in front of a man who wasn’t faking how he looked at her?
I finally settled on a beige sweater and jeans. They were safe, soft, and fall-ish, and they made me feel… grounded. A little.
Thanksgiving meant everyone—Nick’s mom, Colt, and Abigail- would be there. A whole house full of warmth and laughter, I wasn’t sure I belonged in. Especially with Colt orchestrating some picture-perfect family dinner, making it impossible to hide. I hadn’t realized how tight Nick and Colt were until this trip—Brothers, not just friends. Real connection. Loyalty. It made me ache in places I didn’t know I still had.
My childhood had been cold. Lonely. No siblings. No laughter in the halls. Just silence. And secrets. And gifts from a man who bought my mother’s love and buried mine beneath shame. I hadn’t even gotten a call this morning. Not a “Happy Thanksgiving” text. Nothing. Just a perfectly filtered Instagram post from Switzerland—The best place to be for fall—while my mother posed in designer boots with Richard’s arm wrapped tight around her.
I liked the picture anyway because that’s what good daughters do.
Only Olga had messaged me. She wasn’t even in our lives anymore, but she remembered. She always did. The only one who knew the truth. The only one who hadn’t chosen to look the other way.
A deep, cold ache settled in my chest.
Then—“Hey.”
I jumped like I’d been shot.
“Shit, you scared me.” My heart galloped as I turned and saw him, standing in the doorway, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips. His shoulders shook with a laugh he didn’t let out, which somehow made it worse.
“That’s not funny,” I snapped, but there was no bite to it. “I mean, this is a small house. How could I not hear you coming up the stairs?”
His voice was low and easy. “I was a tier one operator for years. It’s second nature to sneak up on people. Plus, the stairs are solid wood, so they don’t make any creaking noises.”
“Lucky me,” I muttered under my breath.
He held up a plastic grocery bag like it was a peace offering. “After I left Villa Ravenna, I had to pick up some rolls. Abigail has a craving for them—the Hawaiian bread kind.”
I nodded, grounding myself. “No worries, I was just about to get dressed.”
“Perfect. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, but before I could move, he turned back around halfway, pinning me with that disarming stare of his.
“You don’t need makeup, by the way,” he said. “You look beautiful without it.”
The air left my lungs. Just like that, all the careful armor I’d built—brick by brick over years of survival—shuddered under the weight of one man’s kindness. One man’s sincerity.
“Is that real advice or fake advice?” I asked, my voice light, too light. I needed to keep this playful, to pull the focus away from how my heart was galloping and how raw I felt.
“Nothing more real than your natural beauty.”
