Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Oh, lookee here. Trouble in paradise?
It was comforting to know that Gracelynn’s childhood had ended up being just as fucked up as mine. Miranda lingered in the dining room, panting, when I took a bite of my oatmeal and flipped another page.
“I’m sure you’re just delighted with this whole scene.” Miranda pivoted my way with snark, trying to pick a fight.
I swung my gaze from my book to her, smiling. “I’m amused more than delighted. Glee is such an acute feeling—I doubt you could do or say anything that’d prompt me to such emotional heights.”
“Ah, you and your stupid riddles. I never understand what you mean.” She bared her teeth. “You’ve always been odd and awkward, just like your mother.”
To this jab, I gave a full-blown laugh. “She was weird, awkward, and the first lawful wife of Douglas Corbin. The mother of his firstborn. His sole heir. And she might be dead, but these facts? They fucking kill you, Miranda.”
“Tell me.” She leaned forward, toward me, her eyes dancing in their sockets. “Why are you happy about all of this? It’s not like you’re having a bad time at Andrew Dexter.”
Sitting back, I drummed my fingers on the back of my hardcover, giving it some thought. “Guess I enjoy seeing karma in action. You convinced this man to throw his son—his own flesh and blood—to the curb. And you expected him to stick around for you? Loyalty is not a tree. It doesn’t grow with time. Either you’re a loyal person or you’re not. Douglas isn’t loyal. What’s more, I bet he isn’t faithful either.”
She still stared at me as I picked up my empty oatmeal bowl and my book and left the room, knowing that she wanted to hurt me but that she no longer had the power to do so.
Dad turned out to be right. Gracelynn decided to stick around at the mansion for Christmas while her mother ran away to our Hamptons house, surrounding herself with her New York divorcée friends.
The benefit of this whole thing was that over the years, I’d relocated my residence whenever I was here for vacations, and I now lived in a separate wing of the house, far away from her. It was entirely possible for me not to see her at all if I wished to.
And I did wish to, because she was a pain in the ass.
I managed to avoid her the entire duration of the holiday, save for Christmas Day itself, on which the three of us exchanged gifts.
Dad got me a 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra and my stepsister a vintage tiara—the real deal, full of diamonds. Gracelynn got me funny socks and a sweater. I gifted Dad an engraved cigar box and for Gracelynn, arctic mice—snake food from PetSmart. The gift drew an awkward giggle from her and an annoyed hum from him, but he was too preoccupied with the collapse of his marriage to chide me for it.
I endured the day, hour by hour, minute by minute, until it evaporated into the night and I was able to breathe again.
Another day passed, and then another. It was a beautiful thing to look at the calendar and see that tomorrow I was going back to Andrew Dexter, and Miranda was still not here, and Gracelynn, who was here somewhere, was as miserable and lost as I’d felt my first two years at Andrew Dexter.
The occasion called for a celebration, and I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen in the middle of the night to raid the wine fridge. I hadn’t planned on drinking tonight, but I’d bring some bottles with me to the dorms. Riggs and Nicky would appreciate it, and we’d have enough alcohol to hold us over until Easter.
I made my way downstairs barefoot, opened a garbage bag, and started filling it with expensive bottles. Then I walked into the darkened pantry and began shoving junk food into a separate bag. That’s when I heard a soft huff behind my back. More of a hiccup, actually. I turned around, thinking it was one of the staff, to find my stepsister standing right in front of me, looking like a ghost of her former self.
We stood in the pantry, staring at each other, the faint light from the range hood outside the room the only thing illuminating our faces.
“Are you crying?” I sneered. Her eyes were shining; her face was wet.
She wiped at her cheeks hurriedly, letting out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I cry?”
“Because your family life is nonexistent, you have no real friends, no particular talents, and once your average beauty fades, you’re pretty much toast?” I offered chivalrously.
She let out a cackle that sounded like a nail scratching a blackboard, before breaking down in a feral wail. I didn’t understand it. Any of it. She’d won. She was here, and I was gone. I hadn’t forgiven her, no. In a sense that I’d still deliver vengeance, if and when the opportunity called for it. But I had accepted the situation for what it was over the years. And I never let her see how upset I was by it. Letting someone know you have an emotional reaction to them was the worst thing you could do for yourself. Especially if you didn’t trust them with said feelings.