Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
"I don't care what she does or what she looks like. We have an arrangement that works for both of us… for the moment. When it doesn’t, I’ll rectify the situation." I use the final voice I use for closing a deal in the boardroom. Setting my fork down, I wipe my mouth with a napkin.
My mother's lips purse, etching deeper lines around her mouth, and she shakes her head with disapproval, but she doesn't press. She knows better than to beat her head against a brick wall. Instead, she turns to Freya, her expression softening, a grandmotherly warmth breaking through. "And how's your breakfast, darling?"
Freya looks up, almond butter smeared at the corner of her mouth, her big eyes innocent and bright. "Yummy, Gran."
I watch them, a quiet love blooming in my chest—their interaction is blameless and uncomplicated, the kind I’ll fight to the death to protect. I clear my throat, drawing Freya's gaze.
"Are you done with your work in the garden? To pay for the vase you broke?"
She lowers her head, her curls falling forward like a curtain, her little shoulders slumping as she pokes at her toast. "I have three hours left," she mumbles, voice small and full of a childish remorse that unexpectedly tugs at me, but she needs to learn the value of things, of consequences. In a world of wealth, it's too easy to forget.
Her grandmother arches a brow. "Out of how many?"
"Sixteen." Freya's reply is barely audible, and her cheeks are flushed pink.
We share a glance then, my mother and I—a slightly amused look, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself, her eyes twinkling just a fraction. Parenting's hard edges, softened by love. But I lean in, my hand resting on the table's edge.
"You know why you’ll have to be extra good to make up for it, right?" I ask gently.
I watch her fidget, then nod unhappily.
“That was an expensive and special object. A family heirloom from Gran’s side, and you were careless with it. What have you learned from this experience?”
“No bike in the house…ever."
“Very good.” I finish my coffee, push back my chair, and stand, buttoning my navy blazer over my shirt. I’m raring and ready for another day of mergers and markets. I round the table, leaning down to kiss my mother’s papery cheek first, her skin scented with her signature Chanel No. 5. "Bye, Mom. Call if you need anything."
She pats my hand, her touch soft and affectionate. "Be safe, dear."
Then, Freya, her face tilting up eagerly. I press a kiss to her young skin and inhale the sweet scent of her apple shampoo. "Be good for Gran, okay? I love you."
"Love you more, Daddy," she whispers.
I straighten, a warmth spreading through me as I head out, the conservatory's peace lingering like a promise, even as the shadow of Carolyn's return looms on the horizon.
Chapter Six
JULIET
It's been one month—thirty days that have blurred into one long haze of transformation, each one ticking by like the slow drip of honey from a spoon, sweet with promise but sticky with effort.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror that I scavenged from a stoop sale two years ago, its frame gilded with cheap gold paint that's flaking at the edges. The late summer light filters through the single window, hazy and golden, casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood floors. On the fire escape outside, a breeze rustles the leaves. I can't believe how much time has passed; it feels like yesterday I was wiping counters at Yellow Cup, and now...
Now I'm someone else.
I quit my job. Carolyn insisted I needed to focus on the weight loss and the training, without distractions. No more double shifts or aching feet from standing all day, but God, the pounds didn't melt off easily. I starved on salads from the bodega downstairs, and ran laps around Tompkins Square Park until my lungs burned. The result: I've lost eight pounds, but about two linger stubbornly, clinging to my hips like, well… fat.
Still, my reflection shows a waist that's nipped in, and collarbones that are sharper under my skin, and my boobs stand out more too. I stand in the simple black sheath dress Carolyn had delivered, a sleek Calvin Klein number that luxuriously hugs my body like a lover's hand. I run my palms over my hips, feeling the new leanness, a sensual thrill mixing with unease.
Who is this woman staring back?
I almost don’t recognize myself. My hair's been cut in Carolyn's style—a chic asymmetrical bob by a stylist at Sally Hershberger downtown, the strands falling just above my shoulders in honeyed waves. My eyes are lighter blue with the new contacts, and my face is more defined—cheekbones honed by the weight loss, jawline sculpted. I look expensive, and smell it too, with the special perfume Carolyn sent. Sophisticated. Nervousness coils in my belly like a live wire. Soon I will have to leave the safety of this shoebox—my sanctuary. My bed is piled with thrift-store quilts, my tiny kitchenette where I brew good coffee. But I console myself with the thought that maybe I can sneak back here if it gets too overwhelming. Slip back here for a night of normalcy, curl up with takeout Thai and forget I'm playing pretend.