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et my entire world on fire.
Or she could be the one to save me.
I watch her peek her head into the kitchen, her eyes wandering over my body before they find my face.
“Hi,” I smirk.
She seems shy under my gaze, or nervous maybe. She doesn’t speak, slowly wandering into the kitchen.
“You can’t wear that.” I tell her.
Her eyes meet mine. “Why?” she questions.
I shake my head. Earlier I told her to get ready and dress nice, so her jeans and t-shirt feel like she’s actively disobeying me.
“Where are we going?” she presses.
“Mikaela,” I sigh. I can’t tell her, not yet. “You said you would trust me, hmm?”
She huffs, a breath of air rushing from her lips. “It goes both ways,” she mutters, spinning on her heel.
“Something nice,” I call, and I know it makes me sound like an asshole. “A dress, heels, ya know.”
I hear her mutter something under her breath as she marches up the stairs, I’m sure it's a slur about me. But that's fine, she can hate me as long as she does it in private.
Once we leave this house our act has to be perfect. Flawless. Everyone around us needs to believe that she’s in love with me and there's no way I killed her sister, or else this entire charade goes to hell.
I watch her walk away from me, her hips swaying as she goes up the stairs.
I’m going to break her today.
I don’t know what that makes me. The monster, the villain. I’m surely not the hero in her story.
I scrub a hand over my face. My heart is pounding in my chest, a rapid beat thrumming along with the anxiety of what I’m about to do to her.
It’s the right thing, I know that. Still, the thought of seeing her face when she figures this all out is breaking me apart.
I steady myself, inhaling a deep breath and letting the oxygen fill me up.
I’m going to break her.
Halloween Night - One Year Earlier
I PULL MY BEETLE THROUGH the gates of the Bancroft estate. Even after two years of visiting this house, I still scoff as I pass through the wrought iron passageway bearing the family name.
Only rich people have gates with their names on them.
It’s not even that my family is poor, we’re upper middle class, but we don’t have wealth like this. Though, to be fair, most people in America don’t have wealth like this. Only one percent of Americans hold fifty percent of the country's wealth, and the Bancrofts are in that one percent. Who knew investment banking paid so damn well?
I’m reminded of this fact every day with Noah. People look at him when we’re together, recognizing him off lists of wealthy businessmen, knowing him as the son of “that guy.” And then the looks turn to me, the poor girl with ripped jeans and no trust fund. It makes for awkward dinners and uncomfortable family conversations.
When it’s just us though, just Noah and Mikaela—things are different.
His friends aren’t bad either, the lot of them. Other sons of wealthy people who will never want for anything. Still, even with money, they’re just young assholes who think they own the world.
Except, maybe they do.
I leave my car parked out front and hand the keys off to the valet. Even for what Mariam calls a ‘small get-together,’ there’s a valet, a caterer, and a musician. Mariam doesn’t throw dull parties, that's for sure.
