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“Honey, slow down.” My stepmother’s fake caring tone ruins my gluttonous mood. “Don’t worry. The food isn’t going anywhere.”
I gulp the mouthful of cheesecake, finally tasting the smooth texture, and cut her a glare across the table.
Victoria has an elegant aura about her. It’s in everything she wears or says. Even her tone is a flashback from a period film. Her blonde hair is gathered in a neat French twist. She’s wearing a straight high couture dress that must’ve caused a third country’s budget. A dainty necklace surrounds her smooth neckline and the matching earrings dangle from her ears. She keeps bragging that Dad got her the jewellery set for her birthday.
Gag.
She’s everything a lord’s wife should be. It’s like she was made straight from a manual.
Victoria might look ten years younger than her actual age due to the facelifts and the aristocratic name, but she’s nothing like Mum.
My mother was proud of her tattoos and her artistic streak. She was a free spirit meant to fly, not to be trapped in a mansion like Victoria. But then again, maybe that’s why Dad chose her over my mum.
Since I came here, Victoria made it her job to throw jabs about my origins. If I eat fast, it’s because Mum kept me hungry. If I refuse the expensive gowns, it’s because I’m used to scraps. If I breathe, it’s only because I’m leeching off Dad’s name.
“It’s different here, honey,” Victoria’s lips pull in a conservative smile as she does with the reporters. “You don’t have to worry about food.”
“I never had to worry about food before either,” I say after swallowing another mouthful of Sarah’s cheesecake.
Screw Victoria for insinuating that Mum didn’t take care of me. She was both my mother and my father rolled into one.
I admired her for raising me on her own and being everything I needed.
When I first showed interest in sketching, Mum stayed up all night modelling for me. When I was having a bad day, she’d take me on long drives, just the two of us.
Mum was my world while Daddy dearest lived with his real family.
“It’s fine if you did,” Victoria continues.
“We didn’t. Mum worked for a living you know. She didn’t leech off her lord husband.”
Victoria’s upper lip twitches and I smile to myself.
Small victories.
“Astrid Elizabeth Clifford.”
I wince at Dad’s deadly calm tone. If he calls me by my full name, then he disapproves.
Not that he ever really approves of me.
My fork clinks against the plate as I slightly lift my head to meet his punishing green eyes. The definite proof that I’m his daughter. That his genes collaborated in making mine.
I’ll be eighteen a few weeks from now, but I still feel as small as the seven-year-old kid who begged him to stay. The stupid little kid who painted him as my first kindergarten picture.
Henry Clifford is still strong and well-built for someone in his mid-forties. His dark brown hair, another something I inherited, is slicked back, highlighting his strong forehead and the straight, aristocratic nose.
His pressed navy suit clings to his body as if he were born into one. I certainly don’t remember him out of it.
When I was a kid, I used to feel out of my skin with joy whenever he showed up.
Now, he just intimidates me.
I don’t know when he stopped being my dad and started being his title.
Victoria places her hand on top of Dad’s with a sickeningly sweet smile that’s causing me diabetes. “It’s okay, darling. She’ll come around.”
Kill me now.
