The name feels awkward in my mouth, like I’ve just taken a too-big bite of ice cream and I have to wait for it to melt a little before I can chew or swallow or even breathe. I remind myself that Belindaismy legal name, though hardly anyone’s used it in my living memory. My grandmother’s maiden name on my mother’s side was Winters—a factoid Peter shared like he has any right to mine and Mom’s family history.
“Yup. That’s me.” I nod once, gripping the backpack strap extra tight, trying to hold steady against a sudden wave ofnerves. I can do this. I haven’t let myself feel afraid for years, but that bravery only works in the face of all the old familiar terrors. Mom not waking up from a blackout. Getting evicted. Never finding a way out of the shitty circumstances that have defined my life so far.
This is new. Different. Foreign.
I’m going to need a new kind of bravery. And I’m going to have to fake it until I figure it out.
Starting right now.
“We’re ready for you to board.” He makes a sweeping gesture up to the open plane door. I practically run up the stairs, pausing as I enter to take in the luxurious interior of the private jet my estranged father arranged for me.
It reeks of wealth and power, and as much as I hate to admit it, wealth and power smell good. Expensive. The cream-colored leather interior and sleek lights are a far cry from the industrial-looking sardine can–sized planes I’ve seen on TV. Plush carpet squishes under my boots, and I have the unhinged urge to take them off and sink my toes in. I throw myself into a seat and drop my bag into the empty chair next to me. I strap in, politely refusing the offer of food and drink from the smiley flight attendant.
My chest tightens painfully, and I absently rub at the space above my heart. Peter Vale owns this plane. A plane that has its own private flight attendant and staff. A plane that’s at his disposal at any time, day or night. Meaning he could’ve come to see me any time he wanted to, but did he?
No. Never. Not once.
I only know what he looks like because of photos on the internet. His voice was totally unfamiliar to me until a coupleof days ago, when I picked up a call from an unknown number.I need you, he said. I laughed when I heard those words.
Please. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t evenknowme. He’s just using me, which is fine.
I’m using him, too.
The moment the pilot announces we’re preparing for takeoff, I tense up. I don’t remember the only other time in my life when I flew—back when I was six years old, and Mom couldn’t stop crying, and we were leaving England behind for our new life in America. Our new life … alone together. Without Peter. Without Isla. Clenching the armrests, I take a deep breath, telling myself I’m fine. The plane won’t crash. Thousands of planes are in the air right now. This is nothing.
But it feels like everything.
I’m a knot of nerves through takeoff, but when the flight attendant finally says it’s safe to move around the cabin, my grip loosens and my shoulders drop away from my ears. Maybe I’m still shaking inside, but I’m doing it—I’m moving forward. I’m committed now. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of taking care of someone who only ever breaks promises, it’s how to keep mine.
I unbuckle, grab my backpack, and make for the bathroom at the back of the cabin.
I yank open the door and close it behind me with a metallicclick.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I take a long last look at the old me. Billie Vale may have boarded this plane, but Belinda Winters is stepping off it. I can’t be me anymore if I’m going to have any hope of pulling this off. Might as well lean into beingher.
I take out and unzip a tiny, satin-lined bag before I start removing my jewelry. The nose ring comes out first, then my rows of three tiny silver hoop earrings in each ear. Next, I peel off the necklaces, not bothering to untangle the chains before dumping them in. I shake off the bangles, then undo the tiny clasps of the smaller bracelets, dropping them in the bag with the necklaces. I straighten and stare at my reflection, taking in the heavy black eyeliner, thick mascara, and pale foundation I wear. I use the last of my makeup wipes to smear it off before I wash my face, scrubbing until my skin hurts and my cheeks glow pink.
There’s one more piece to this puzzle, and it might be the most important. I pull out the box of hair dye I bought at the Duane Reade closest to Doug’s bar, and follow the instructions, praying I don’t damage my hair so badly it all falls out. As I add the color, I stare in the mirror, repeating the same words over and over.
“Belinda Winters, Manhattan socialite.” I make a face. Like I’d ever say that to someone. “Yes, hello. I’m Belinda Winters. Belinda. Yes, from Manhattan.”
I keep repeating nonsense phrases until I find Belinda’s voice. “And then I saidyou have to stop, that’s not our yacht!” Higher, I think, and a little brighter. “I mean seriously, Malta is so 2022.” A touch more nasal. “Where’d I get this bag? I mean, it’s vintage Givenchy, so like … heaven, I guess?” Annnd there she is. Belinda’s laugh tinkles like a bell made of sunshine and generational wealth.
While waiting for the color to set, I pick up my phone and archive all my social media, wiping myself from existence with a few taps on a screen. I suppose Peter has a team of peoplewho could vanish my online footprint, replacing it with the newly formed New York socialite I’m now supposed to be.
God, this all sounds like a nightmare, but one I’m determined to conquer.
Once the timer is up, I wash my hair by leaning into the tiny shower and using the handheld nozzle. The water pressure is shit, and it takes forever to rinse the color out. The water swirling down the drain runs dark and strange—like I’m watching the last version of me disappear. When it finally runs clear, I grab a towel and dry my hair as best I can. Then I turn toward the mirror, and my mouth drops open, my fair skin turning even paler when I see my new color.
Oh no. It looks freakingterrible.
Dear old Dad is going to kill me.
CHAPTER TWO
Ijolt awake when the plane touches down, glancing around the interior in confusion. It takes me a minute to remember where I am and where I’m about to go, and my nerves flare up, my stomach churning. I can’t tell if it’s from hunger or nausea.
“The plane just landed,” the flight attendant says, appearing in front of me looking fresh and beautiful. Her simple charcoal gray uniform doesn’t have a wrinkle in sight, while I’m a rumpled mess, with the badly dyed hair. And I’m pretty sure I left a drool stain on the plain black T-shirt I changed into after my hair color fiasco. “We should be disembarking shortly.”
