Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 35875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
I pull up in the back of the parking lot, wedging the Taurus into a spot between a Ford and a Volvo, and then kill the engine. Bellange Parfum is still splashed across the entrance to the red brick building in elegant letters, though I doubt it will be for much longer if my father gets his way. I'm sure he'll tear down my mom's family name and replace it with his own—Laurent.
That doesn't even feel like my name anymore. Until last night with Jack, I hadn't used it in seven years. I've been Madison Bell since the day I disappeared. As far as the world knows, my mom died, my father is a deadbeat, and I skipped town to escape my sad little life. It's close to the truth without being too close. I'm just a face in an endless sea of faces telling a similar story.
I settle back in the seat to watch the building, certain my father will arrive soon—late, as usual. Growling and shouting at my employees, also as usual.
God, I never thought I'd hate another human being the way I hate him. I guess that's what happens when you spend most of a year living in your car, afraid you're going to be killed, though. You grow stronger. You learn you can face anything. And the monsters you were once so afraid of? Well, fear hardens. It turns bitter and corrosive.
I want to put it down and let it go. But not yet. Not until I'm sure he won't ever get what he wants. That's what it'll take to ensure I sleep at night. If that means I'm even a tiny bit like him, then I guess I'll have to accept that label. But I have to do this, if not for myself, then for my mom.
He made her life just as miserable as he made mine. While she was dying, he was cheating. While she was sick, he was looking for ways to take her company. And while I was grieving, he was gloating.
Money doesn't make people selfish. It makes them the worst possible versions of themselves. Just look around. Even in this town, where people can have anything and dreams come true every single day, there are awful people.
The happier the story, the darker the shadows. I learned that out in the world, too. People always want what others have, and success always comes with a price. No one who "made it" ever did it without tears and sweat and sleepless nights. They fought through things, lost things, or ran from things to get where they were going. And people like my dad were waiting in the shadows the whole time, waiting to trip them up and take what wasn't theirs to take.
Those people rarely win, though. Because the world sees them for who they are. You can't paint a frog and call it a prince. Eventually, it croaks. It's what frogs do.
Not even fifteen minutes after I park, my father pulls up in his luxury SUV, parking in his designated spot right beside the doors. He hops out, dressed in an expensive designer suit, his hair carefully gelled. The fake smile on his face is an almost permanent fixture. People think he's handsome. With dark hair only just beginning to gray and his severe features, I suppose maybe he is. He's fit and healthy. Women have always flirted with him, which is honestly disgusting. But there's this…darkness in his aura. It really sucks the life out of him.
"Now, it's my turn," I murmur, reaching for the burner phone on the passenger seat. I dial his number, watching as he pats his pockets, searching for his phone.
"Laurent," he snaps once he's got it to his ear.
His voice makes my skin crawl.
"Daddy," I say in a sing-song voice like I did when I was a little girl, back before I realized he was a psycho. I idolized him when I was little, thought he hung the moon. And then I grew up and realized he was only nice to me because he wanted something from me. He needed me to pick him over my mom if she ever left him. I was his insurance policy, his guarantee that she never served him divorce papers the way he deserved.
Watching the color drain from his face is ridiculously satisfying.
"W-who is this?" he growls, his voice shaking.
"It's me, your favorite girl. Don't you remember me?"
"This isn't funny. My daughter is dead."
"Are you sure about that? Really, really sure? I don't feel dead."
"Who is this?" he snaps again, wheeling in a circle.
"I already told you. It's your favorite girl."
His cold blue eyes scan the parking lot so I duck down to ensure he can't see me, though I highly doubt he can from here with four rows of cars between us.