Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Her brown eyes search mine for something I’m not willing to give, so I look away. I can’t take it.
It’s hard enough living with her.
Even worse, going to school with her.
Even worse than that? The fact that the entire school, regardless of what she does, seems to think she’s suddenly the second coming.
She volunteers for everything.
She’s a straight-A student.
She’s just nice to everyone no matter how they treat her, which is irritating in and of itself—and she’s done all of this in the span of a semester. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to make up for her sins.
I wish, for once in my fucking life, that she would be cruel the way I know her to be cruel to destroy something so perfect.
Instead, she continues her Mother Teresa act like its normal when I know she’s a killer.
Am I being extreme? Yes. Emotional? Yes. But get back at me when your dad dies at the hand of someone you trusted who refuses to tell the cops what actually happened.
That’s the kicker.
She said it was an accident, but no details were given, no matter what, and since she’s a minor, they let it go, since my mom probably paid them off, they let it go, so it was ruled as a freak heart attack.
The autopsy proved it, but what the hell caused it? He was fine, he seemed fine, and a little meeting with her is enough to set him off?
Besides, she was the only one there.
The. Only. One.
Did she kill him? Maybe. But why?
And how did he really die from a small foster girl walking into his office?
I shake my head in disgust.
My mom thinks we keep our enemies closer, but is it so horrible to want to push them off a cliff, no matter how pretty and enticing?
“Ambrose,” MB, which is what I call her now because I can’t use the energy to use her full name as it makes me want to commit homicide, says. “Do you have a minute?”
“Ten seconds.” I turn around. “One, two, three—“
“—-if you count, I’ll panic. I just wanted to let you know—“
“—Four, five…” I roll my eyes. “…six, seven—“
“—That—“
“—Eight—“
“—I’m sorry, okay. I can’t… I just can’t. You don’t trust me, but you need to. One day… One day it’s going to make sense. I care about you—“
“Nine.” I lean in, voice hoarse. “Ten. Wow, new princess, times up; if that’s all you had to say, it’s pathetic. Try harder next time. Lie better.” I smirk. “You’re a horrible excuse for a human being. Maybe I’ll meet you in Hell one day. Oh, look…” I laugh. “…we’re already there!” I pat her on the shoulder. “Have you gained weight?”
She jerks away from me as tears fill her eyes. Good. “Why? Why are you so cruel? You know me, you were… with me.”
“I was inside you. I knew your body, not your dark heart. Know the difference, princess. You’re not mine. You don’t even belong to yourself. I mean, how could a liar even know themselves? They can’t. Go to class. Leave me alone.”
I shove past her and wish I could feel better.
Instead, my heart hurts.
My body aches.
And I wonder if things will ever be the same again.
I used to hate being rich.
Now I just want a reset.
Where things were perfect.
Where I hated it.
Anything would be better than this nightmare.
“Miss you,” I whisper. “Dad.”
I should have told him.
I should have listened.
And now, I’m the legacy.
I sit in calculus as people try not to make eye contact with me, and I wish I had the tears to cry.
Instead, I open my textbook and focus.
All our dynasty has left is me.
And I intend to make sure it lasts.
Chapter Eleven
Mary-Belle
I’m numb.
Not in a good way.
I smile, get good grades, and try to cook for the family that took me in as much as possible, even though they bring in a chef every weekend.
And I’m miserable.
I miss his kisses, I miss his kindness, I miss his laugh, all he sees when he looks at me is blood, and I don’t blame him, but I can’t go back. How does he not see that? How does he not see my own trauma and how I can’t go back?
I take three deep breaths and go into the lunchroom; as always, everyone looks away while I take my tray to one of the empty tables. They know I sit by myself and do homework or listen to a random podcast but really, it’s just because I’m exhausted trying to be perfect all the time at school, at the house I’m afraid to eat in front of everyone. I’m the interloper, the person everyone blames, and even doing all the things I do at school is only so that I’m not at the house as often. So I don’t see his door or watch him walk in and out and sneer at me… the memories cut deep. It was a short moment or amount of time, but it fed years of loneliness.