Page 2 of The Unexpected

I laugh, a light, airy sound that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"Just trying to maintain the high standards of Nicolette. You know Miriam. She can be a bitch."

As I turn back to the rack, I feel a slight tightening in my jaw, a tension I try to release with a slow, deliberate breath. My fingers trace the soft, expensive fabric of the cardigans, a tangible comfort in the face of a hollow feeling that's been growing inside me for months. The rest of my shift passes in a blur of customers and small talk, the constant buzz of my phone a reminder of a world I'm not quite a part of anymore.

Finally, six o'clock rolls around. I say my goodbyes to Chloe, grab my tote bag, and head for the door. The little brass bell above it jingles softly as I pull it shut behind me. I take a deep breath of the cool evening air, the scent of rain and pavement a welcome change from the cloying sweetness of the boutique. I’m free, finally. I adjust the strap of my tote on my shoulder and start walking, the click of my heels on the cobblestones the only sound in the encroaching darkness. The streetlights flicker on, casting a warm, yellow glow on the empty street ahead of me.

I pull my phone out, not to check for messages, but to call a car. My father's mansion is too far to walk, and I don't feel like navigating the bus system in this mood. As I wait for the car to arrive, I find myself scrolling through my photos, landing on one from last summer. It's the four of us, me, Kayleigh, Mary Kate, and Andie, squished together on a blanket at the park. We're all laughing, our faces sun-kissed and carefree. I'm in the middle, my arms thrown around Kayleigh and Andie, my head thrown back in a fit of genuine, unadulterated joy. I barely recognize the girl in the picture. She looks so light. So unburdened.

The car pulls up, a sleek black sedan that blends seamlessly into the night. I slide into the back seat, the cool leather a stark contrast to the warmth of my own skin. The driver, a middle-aged man with a kind face, nods at me in the rearview mirror. "Evening, miss."

"Evening," I reply, my voice softer than I intended. I confirm the address, and we pull away from the curb, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color outside the window. I lean my head against the cool glass, the steady rhythm of the car a lulling, almost hypnotic sensation. My phone buzzes again, and I know, without even looking, that it's another string of heart emojis from Andie, or another picture of the ring from Mary Kate, or another update from Kayleigh about Trevor's adorable puppy-like snores. I ignore it. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I let myself pretend I'm somewhere else. Somewhere with someone else. Someone with broad shoulders and a kind smile. Someone who's waiting for me to come home. Two someones, if I’m being frank.

The car turns onto the long, winding road that leads to my father's mansion. The trees that line the driveway are tall and imposing, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers in the fading light. The house itself looms ahead, a monolith of stone and glass. It looks like a museum, a place where things are displayed and admired, but never truly lived in. And I guess, in a way, that's what I've become.

When I open the front door, there’s someone waiting for me.

Thomas Moreland, my father, shoots me a glare that could kill a lesser woman.

“Hi Dad,” I say with a tremulous smile. “What’s up?”

He’s not at the door—never at the door, not since I was a kid. He stands perfectly still in the center of the foyer, arms folded. Next to him, Andie perches on the bottom step, a curvy shape in a fitted blue sweater, her hair pulled up in a twist, and in her lap a glossy monogrammed weekender bag. There are three suitcases staged by the door.

“Oh my god,” I say, “are you guys moving out? Is it because I’m too messy? If this is an intervention, I feel like it should be in the kitchen, not here.”

Andie gives me a small, practiced smile. “Stella.”

My father clears his throat. “We need to talk. Now.”

The authority in his voice. If I was the type to obey, it would work, but I’m not. I let my bag drop onto the entry table, slow as a lizard. He waits for me to come to him, but I don’t. After a moment, Andie excuses herself, murmurs something about checking something or other, and leaves us alone.

He says: “I heard from Chief Lawson.”

A thread of dread slips down my spine. I fight it with sarcasm. “What, are you playing racquetball with the police again?”

His jaw ticks. “You were in county jail a couple months ago, and said nothing about it. I want to know why.”

It’s so sudden, for a second I think I’ve misheard. “What? Who told you that?”

“I have my ways,” he says, and he does. My father, for all his father-ness, is a lawyer down to his core. There are rules, but also, there aren’t.

“I wasn’t even in there a full night. It was like, six hours. And it wasn’t for anything criminal⁠—”

“Stella.” He says it like a closed book slamming shut.

I steady myself. “I was at a party and the cops busted it for noise and maybe underage drinking, but I wasn’t even drinking, it’s not like⁠—”

“That’s not what I heard. What they told me is that you got into a fight with another woman at a party. Assault. Battery.”

I swallow. “Yes, but she started it.”

Thomas shoots me a look. “You realize how childish that sounds, don’t you?”

I shrug.

“Well, it’s true! She was a total ho, and is it my fault if a bitch wants to fight? You know I’m not going to say no. Challenge accepted, bitch!”

My dad huffs with exasperation, his arms crossed.