She laughs again, and it’s soft but bright. Like the satisfyingwhooshthat comes from striking a match.
The voice inside grows louder. “Victoria!”
She pushes off the railing. “You should tell me your name.”
“Not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re trouble.”
Her smile tells me she agrees. “Maybe.”
Without another word, she disappears inside, the silk dress drifting behind her like a wave.
I stand there longer than I should.
Long enough for annoyance to prick at my spine.
She shouldn’t fascinate me.
She’s rich. She’s sheltered. She’s everything I swore I’d never waste time thinking about.
But I can still hear her laughter brushing the back of my neck like a warm breath.
2
Victoria
They saygirls like me are born lucky.
Wrapped in silk. Schooled in etiquette. Raised in homes where the paintings are real and the smiles are not. We grow up knowing which fork to use, when to laugh, and how to fold grief into polite conversation.
But I don’t feel lucky . . .
I feel caged.
The kind of cage that has a beautiful view, but it’s still a prison, nonetheless.
From the second-floor balcony, I watched them arrive. Now I’m watching as they go back to grab their belongings out of an old, battered sedan that looks like it’s seen better days. For a second, when they first pulled up to the house, I didn’t even think it would make it up the driveway, but in the end, it did.
It sputtered the whole way, but now it’s safely parked in the loading dock. The woman opens the trunk. If the chatter I heard near the kitchen is true, her name is Angela, and she’s startingwith the kitchen staff today. She seems calm and capable as she rummages through the trunk. Next up is the boy from before—correction, a man, or maybe somewhere in between. Hard to tell from this angle.
He heads over to where the woman, whom I assume is his mother is, then grabs the bag from her hand before slamming the trunk in anger.
There is something dark about him, an anger I can see even from where I’m hiding in the shadows.
He leans against the car with a chip on his shoulder and a patch of hair falling in his eyes.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of handsome you don’t see on magazine covers because it’s too raw, too real.
He doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the car or the clothes, but because he’s looking at the estate like he wants to burn it to the ground.
Good.
I’m tired of people who submit.
It’s hard enough being Victoria Danforth, but when people suck up to me, it’s even worse.
