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ssy pale pink. Madeline practically had an aneurysm when I asked the tech if she had any black polish. Apparently, a proper lady only wears shades of nude unless there’s a special occasion. Then, and only then, are reds acceptable. Under no circumstances, am I permitted to wear anything else because it would make me look cheap.
Cue the eye roll.
I already miss my mom with a gut-wrenching intensity, but this superficial bullshit amplifies it. Mahalia Rivera was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and she rarely wore makeup. Our Filipino heritage gave her skin a year-round bronzed look with eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate. She was incredibly fit from being on her feet all day working various jobs, and her smile could light up a room.
Her physical beauty wasn’t where it stopped though. My mom had the biggest heart, always helping others no matter how busy or exhausted she was. She worked hard, sometimes three jobs at a time, but not once had she complained. My sister and I never doubted her love for us; it radiated from her. She proved it, day in and day out, with her actions. If more people were like her, this world would have a lot fewer problems.
I rub the aching spot on my chest. I’ve read that emotional pain from losing someone important to you is so paramount it can manifest into physical pain. I never quite understood how that was possible, but I definitely get it now. Ever since my mom died, the sharp pains in my chest and the pit in my stomach have been constant reminders she’s no longer here. Sometimes it feels like my heart is literally splitting in two.
I take a deep breath before stepping out the back doors for inspection. Charles, Madeline, and Peyton are all sitting at a large table on the patio eating brunch. I guess they weren’t worried about starting without me.
Madeline gasps. “Oh, honey, you look beautiful! Doesn’t she look stunning, darling?”
Sperm Donor looks me over with careful scrutiny. “Yes, this will be... acceptable. For now.”
What the hell? I just had to deal with people fussing all over me for six hours to bring me up to his standards. “What’s the matter? I’m not blonde enough for you?”
All three members of my newfound family look Scandinavian, with pale hair and blue eyes. Even though Peyton is technically his stepdaughter, she looks more like Charles’ birth child than I ever will.
His jaw tics. “Are you accusing me of something, Jasmine?”
I lift a shoulder in response.
A smarmy smile stretches across his face. “My first wife—God rest her soul—was Venezuelan and my second wife is African American.”
Jesus, how many times has this guy been married?
“And?”
He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Not to mention the fact that your mother was Asian American. I certainly hope you’re not implying I would have an issue with people of color because I think my history with women would contradict that statement. It’s not a matter of race; it’s about class. You may be wearing designer clothing and appear more refined on the surface, but you wear your lack of decorum like a badge of honor.
“I realize you grew up in a different socioeconomic environment so I’ll give you some leeway, but you will learn how to carry yourself properly. If you can’t figure out how to do that on your own, I’ll have to sign you up for etiquette classes.”
Peyton smirks. I scratch the bridge of my nose with my middle finger in response.
Charles narrows his eyes. “That only reinforces my statement.”
I nod. “Got it. So, you’re not a racist but you are a classist.”
God, what is it about this man that compels me to run my mouth?
His face gets that purplish tint to it that I’m becoming awfully familiar with. “Classes begin tomorrow. I suggest you take the rest of the day to familiarize yourself with the Windsor Academy handbook. Their expectations of the student body are clearly laid out and will be adhered to.”
I pop an eyebrow. “Or else?”
Madeline places her hand on his forearm, in attempt to diffuse the situation. “Dear, I’ll have one of the maids bring some snacks to your bedroom. You just let them know if you need anything else.”
I give a flippant wave as I step back inside. It’s probably for the best so I don’t say anything else that pisses him off. My self-control is obviously lacking where Charles Callahan is concerned. I have no desire to be around a man who can dismiss me so easily anyway.
I’LL ADMIT, WINDSOR Academy’s campus is impressive. I can’t believe this place is right outside of L.A. It seems like a completely different world. As the town car pulls through the wrought-iron gates—of course Charles Callahan couldn’t be bothered to drive me here—I’m dumbstruck by the beauty of it. There are three red brick buildings, with two stories each, lined up in a semi-circle. Smaller buildings are scattered throughout, all with a similar architecture. The grounds are meticulously landscaped and surrounded by thick woods comprised of mature evergreens.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my plaid skirt, reminding myself that I have no reason to be nervous. As the car comes to a halt, I see Peyton and two other girls standing next to a red sports car. The student parking lot is freshly paved and filled with ridiculously flashy vehicles just like it.
By the way the two girls are fawning over Peyton with plastic smiles, I’m guessing this is her mean girl brigade. Unlike me, Peyton has her license, so she drove herself to school. I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I step out of the car.
The stunning copper-haired girl to Peyton’s left eyes me curiously. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody,” Peyton sneers. “Literally nobody. Forget you ever saw her.”
