Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
A slow, amused curve forms on her mouth. It seems she’s not used to someone answering her without bending a little.
“What’s your name?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She laughs softly, but the wind carries the gentle sound to my ears. “Wow. Incredible bedside manner. I’m Victoria.”
Of course she is.
The Danforth heiress herself. The sole one. Seventeen. Rumored to be beautiful, prim, polite, homeschooled, and one stuffy, flawless day away from calcifying into another statue decorating these grounds.
I don’t look at her again. “Good for you.”
She leans even farther over the railing. “You always this friendly?”
“Friendliness isn’t in my job description.”
“What is in your job description?”
“Not talking to you.”
Her smile widens like I’ve just given her a gift.
Rich girls.
They just love to run toward the one person walking away.
Before she can respond, a voice snaps from inside the house. Sharp, irritated, older than the marble columns holding this place up.
“Victoria! Come inside. Now.”
Victoria’s eyes flick toward the open balcony doors, then back to me. Something mischievous sparks there. Something rebellious and reckless.
It strikes me that she’s different than the rumors suggest. So different that I’m shocked that no one has noticed it before.
Victoria ignores the call, still focused on me. “Are you going to be here all summer?”
“No.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I don’t plan on sticking around longer than I have to.”
“A shame.” Her voice drops into something almost . . . disappointed. “It’s boring here.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
She laughs again, and it’s soft but bright. Like the satisfying whoosh that comes from striking a match.
The voice inside grows louder. “Victoria!”
She pushes off the railing. “You should tell me your name.”
“Not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re trouble.”
Her smile tells me she agrees. “Maybe.”
Without another word, she disappears inside, the silk dress drifting behind her like a wave.
I stand there longer than I should.
Long enough for annoyance to prick at my spine.
She shouldn’t fascinate me.
She’s rich. She’s sheltered. She’s everything I swore I’d never waste time thinking about.
But I can still hear her laughter brushing the back of my neck like a warm breath.
2
Victoria
They say girls like me are born lucky.
Wrapped in silk. Schooled in etiquette. Raised in homes where the paintings are real and the smiles are not. We grow up knowing which fork to use, when to laugh, and how to fold grief into polite conversation.
But I don’t feel lucky . . .
I feel caged.
The kind of cage that has a beautiful view, but it’s still a prison, nonetheless.
From the second-floor balcony, I watched them arrive. Now I’m watching as they go back to grab their belongings out of an old, battered sedan that looks like it’s seen better days. For a second, when they first pulled up to the house, I didn’t even think it would make it up the driveway, but in the end, it did.
It sputtered the whole way, but now it’s safely parked in the loading dock. The woman opens the trunk. If the chatter I heard near the kitchen is true, her name is Angela, and she’s starting with the kitchen staff today. She seems calm and capable as she rummages through the trunk. Next up is the boy from before—correction, a man, or maybe somewhere in between. Hard to tell from this angle.
He heads over to where the woman, whom I assume is his mother is, then grabs the bag from her hand before slamming the trunk in anger.
There is something dark about him, an anger I can see even from where I’m hiding in the shadows.
He leans against the car with a chip on his shoulder and a patch of hair falling in his eyes.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of handsome you don’t see on magazine covers because it’s too raw, too real.
He doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the car or the clothes, but because he’s looking at the estate like he wants to burn it to the ground.
Good.
I’m tired of people who submit.
It’s hard enough being Victoria Danforth, but when people suck up to me, it’s even worse.
I’m no one special, despite what my parents think, and even then, they consider me a prize and possession, not a living, breathing teen with real feelings and thoughts.
The stranger steps away from the car and heads toward the door. With each step he takes, the arm muscles visible in his T-shirt flex. My cheeks warm. I might not know this guy, but wow.
He’s going to make it hard not to want to.
There is no question that he is the best-looking person I have ever seen.
With dark eyes and a chiseled jaw, I want to head downstairs and get a better look at him, but I can’t, of course. That would not be acceptable behavior for a girl like me.
Instead, I step forward, crossing my arms over the balcony and looking down.
I’m torn between wanting him to see me again and hoping he doesn’t.