I never knew my grandparents. My mother ran away from home when she was seventeen after getting hooked on heroin. Her family never heard from her again, and no one ever knew I even existed. She got knocked up with me at the age of eighteen and never sought the help she most certainly should have from her parents.
And so after the death of their father several years after their mother, my uncle decided to hire a private investigator to find his long-lost baby sister.
Imagine the shock on William's face when he saw me, a twelve-year-old boy covered in his own filth and weighing as much as a kid half his age.
William saw me that day. He actually saw me…instead of looking right through me like I didn't exist and like I had grown accustomed to over the years.
And then he saved me. Ripped me out of the clutches of that horrible life and brought me into his world.
And what a world it was.
My uncle was rich. Beyond rich. And he had things I only ever dreamed of, but never knew existed.
However, I knew from the moment I stepped foot into the 12,000-square-foot mansion that I didn't belong there…and probably never would.
I refused to sleep in the king-sized bed that smelled like fresh linen, and instead opted for the closet, never wanting to become too comfortable or letting my guard down.
I snuck food constantly, so afraid that my next meal would never come and that I would once again feel the excruciating hunger that I used to feel when I was a boy.
I think at that point I was waiting for the proverbial rug to be pulled out from under me at any given instant.
And so I waited…and waited…and waited, but my uncle never sent me away. No matter how many times I acted out and no matter how many times I disappointed him.
Eventually, I began to accept my uncle's help and kindness, along with that of his son's. Jackson, my newly acquired cousin, was the same age as me, but we couldn't have been more opposite. The biggest difference being that Jackson was…normal. And I was anything but.
I was able to become a chameleon of sorts, however, hiding my obsessive compulsions and blending in to the point of normalcy. It took a lot of practice, but in time, people began to regard me with looks of respect instead of expressions of pity.
Nothing came easy to me back then or even now, but I wouldn't want it any other way. Every single accomplishment is anotherfuck youto the nasty whore who brought me into this world.
And as I glance at my reflection in the bathroom, I regard the man staring back at me in the mirror. The scared little boy I once was is gone now, hidden deep down in the dark recesses of my mind.
My dark eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and my chestnut hair is a complete wreck from running my hands through it a few moments ago.
Letting out a frustrated growl, I turn the water in the shower on as hot as I can stand it before stripping out of my clothes and stepping into the spray.
Once the scalding hot water cascades down my body, I instantly begin to feel better. Lathering up my hands with an antibacterial soap that smells masculine and clean, I scrub my body for over an hour.
Showering is like a ritual for me. When I'm in this glass-enclosed safe haven, nothing seems to bother me, and I can just simply focus on the task at hand. It's a very short reprieve in my day from my fucked-up thoughts and neurotic impulses.
After my very long shower, I dry off, style my hair into a perfect coif and iron my shirt and pants before getting dressed. While I'm buttoning the cuffs of my dress shirt, my phone alerts me to a new email. It's the email I've been waiting for for weeks now.
A wicked smirk appears on my face as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My day just got a whole hell of a lot better.
CHAPTER 2
ADELINE
"YOU'RE NOT CONCENTRATING, Adeline."
The voice of my piano teacher makes me jump, and my fingers stumble over the keys, creating a horrible combination of notes and making him cringe in disgust.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Moreau," I tell the tall, lanky man hovering over me. He's older, in his sixties, and he's trained some of the world's best pianists. When he retired to New York City several years ago, my father hired him to give me lessons; thus, replacing old Mrs. Beaumont, who started teaching me at the tender age of five.
To say Mr. Moreau is tough to please would be the understatement of the year.
He watches my every move as I continue with the Chopin composition, his narrowed eyes still projecting his disappointment over my blunder.
