I scrolled quickly through the other stipulations, though I’d read them enough that they felt burned into my brain. Not only did I have to live with my evil bitch of a half-sister—who had convinced Mr. Cumberland that she was just the sweetest little thing since fairy princesses… yeah, right—for a year, but we were to share Jack and Jill bedroom suites, complete one bonding activity per week, and have a meal together five times a week.
I was being controlled beyond the grave, as if I didn’t have enough daddy issues already.
Maybe I should turn and drive away.
No one would have blamed me if I had done such. At least, no one that I knew would have. I had been this man’s dirty little secret for all of my life, and his wife and daughter—who was conveniently my age because I guess good old Dad had been busy that year—certainly had never thanked me for it. I had spent my entire life simply referring to him as “my dad” rather than using his name because my mother had drilled into me the retribution his family could bring down upon me if they ever found out.
Guess we can’t really hide that now.
I love my mother, don’t get me wrong. But, I would have never allowed myself to go along with anything so trite and so irresponsible without getting something from it in the process. Then again, I guess this was why she had encouraged me so much to do this. Maybe she thought she could get her hands on some of my inheritance if I could simply stick this out for a little while.
I wish someone took me into consideration for once.
Still, as I sat there with my car heating up in the early spring sunshine, I felt my hands releasing my steering wheel. As much as I knew this would be torture, I had to try to stick this out. I had to try to do this, if for no other reason than for myself. My life wasn’t something to be proud of. Walking around, knowing that I’d never see my father during Career Day at school and never being able to attend Father-Daughter dances and playdates and never being able to go to him with boy troubles marked my childhood with depressing snippets I’d never forget. It left my mother with a hole in her heart the size of a twelve-pack that, during her younger days, she’d smash while crying at old rom-com reruns on television.
The man had ruined our lives, as far as I was concerned.
And for that, I’d take as much of his money as he had left for me.
“Come on, you can do this,” I murmured to myself.
As my car continued to sit beneath the hot, bubbling sun, I drew in a deep breath. If I was going to do this, I simply had to suck it up and deal with it. So, it was time to go inside and face the reality of my new life.
Until I dug my phone out of my purse to call Mom instead.
She picked up without it ringing on my end. “Don’t tell me you’re sitting in front of the front door,” she said instead of a greeting.
I rolled my eyes.
But I should’ve known she’d somehow hear that, too. “Don’t go rolling your eyes, either, Emma Jane.”
“Why am I doing this again, Mom?”
I was ashamed to hear the smallness of my voice. I had spent the past two years far away from Connecticut, reinventing myself into a strong, confident woman instead of the bullied little girl of my past. And yet, after just five minutes here, I could feel myself shrinking.
“You know why you’re doing this, sweetheart,” her voice softened. “You need the money for college. Imagine starting out fresh, no student loans, no debt. Your father can do that for you. It’s just a year. It will pass by in the blink of an eye.”
I sighed, and she took that as a cut to press on. “Go on, sweetheart. Get settled and call me sometime tonight so I know you’re okay.” She paused. “And don’t let them push you. Remember, it’s your house now, too.”
We said our goodbyes, and I reluctantly tucked away my phone. Grabbing my duffel, I slammed my car door and squared my shoulders as I faced the white, glass-paneled front door. The words my mother said rang in my ears. It was my house now, too. But all I could see was the house it could have been for me. This elegance, this luxury, with the Long Island Sound sparkling blue and inviting in the land behind it, and the sounds of horses moving in the stables nearby, could have been mine.
Instead, this house represented everything my childhood wasn’t. Dad had insisted that he and I see each other and that I go to the same school his non-bastard daughter, Ashleigh, went to, but his wife had put her foot down about much else. She’d fought tooth and nail to keep the child support payments as low as possible, so while Mom and I scraped by on her paltry income as an artist, Ashleigh was living the high life out here.
What if my father had married the right friend? What if this had been my life? I shook my head and tightened my grip on my bag. There was no use in “could have beens.” My life was a good one, aside from the hell that Ashleigh had put me through, which I was now about to face once more.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered aloud, and then I pushed open the front door.
It had been a long time since I’d darkened this doorstep. The ceilings in the front entry rose staggeringly high, with a blue-stucco inlay at the very top. I shut the door quietly and began to wander through.
The house was bright, white-washed with tasteful beige and sandalwood touches. Windows were everywhere, and through each one, you could see the water. Forgetting my anxiety, I walked through to the first window I saw, touching a finger to the glass at the view, when a soft sound startled me.
I jerked around. I was in the dining room but had been so transfixed by the view that I hadn’t noticed someone sitting at the table. The soft sound came again, and I realized it was snoring. Directly behind me, at the head of the table, slumped with her chin against her chest, was Lucille Donohue. Her mass of golden hair curtained her face. On the table in front of her were a crystal decanter and crystal glass, both empty. I glanced at my watch—10:00 in the morning—and raised a brow.
As silently as possible, I backed out of the room, holding my breath so I wouldn’t wake her. Every step I took felt like I was trespassing, and now that I was sneaking, it felt even worse. I had almost made it to the threshold when the back of my foot bumped something. I nearly leaped out of my skin, spinning around and coming face to face with my half-sister.
She smirked at my reaction. “Oh look, the interloper is here,” she drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “I nearly called the police when I saw this trashy nobody sneaking around my house.” She flicked a cold eye up and down me.
I hadn’t seen Ashleigh in two years. Two years without her snarky comments, hateful glares, or not-so-funny pranks. Even in her yoga clothes, she looked amazing. She came by it honestly—her mom somehow managed to look stunning, even slumped and snoring at the dining room table. Ashleigh had the same naturally golden head of hair, long and thick and silky, hair that people paid thousands to try to recreate at the hairdressers’ parlor. She and her mom also shared bright, blue-green eyes. Eyes that I had never particularly enjoyed, as they were ice cold whenever they were turned on me.
I squared my shoulders, though every childhood instinct was screaming at me to run away. “Our house,” I said.
“What was that?” She leaned in closer. “Has little Emmy got something she wants to say?”
I cleared my throat, but my response came out in a stutter. “Our-our house,” I said, and her face lit up.
“Y-y-yeah?” she mocked.
My stutter, which had only ever come out around her and her friends, had long been one of her favorite habits to make fun of. In my high school yearbook, she’d somehow managed to convince the staff advisor that putting “Least Likely to Finish a Sentence” as my senior superlative had been an affectionate joke.
Everyone had always believed Ashleigh. She had long ago mastered the innocent act, and nothing I said had ever made a difference. Not with our teachers, not with our coaches, not even with our dad.
Still, I put on my best smile. “I just need you to show me where my room is.”
Her smile widened. “Well, of course, you do,” she said. “It’s not like you’ve ever been in Daddy’s house before, right? What a shame. Daddy’s dirty little secret only gets to experience luxury now that he’s dead.”
I flinched. Though my relationship with my father had never been perfect, the loss of him was still fresh and painful. No one had expected the heart attack to take him, and at only sixty-one. All those years of philandering, cigars, and rich eating had taken their toll.
“Listen here, Emmy,” she dropped her voice to a hiss. “We may be stuck living this ridiculous fantasy of Dad’s, but don’t you think for one second that you’re entitled to any of this. You have always been trash, a nobody. You’ll walk away with a little bit of money, enough to have a nice little lower-middle-class life. Maybe you’ll make something of yourself in that world, who knows? But don’t start thinking you belong here. You don’t have the money or the breeding. You’re nothing. This is my house, my rightful inheritance, my life. You’ll do well to remember you’re just a poor guest.” With that, her smile clicked back on, bright and beautiful. “Now, let’s take you to your room.”
