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Chapter One
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This was worse thanordering her to toss her car off a cliff... with her inside it.
Or wishing she got eaten by sharks.
This was worse than telling her she was ugly and had no fashion sense.
The ultimate way to destroy every living cell in her being.
Harper Swift emitted a pathetic cry while she gripped the wheel of her car as she strained to see the road ahead. That however did not stop her from taking a moment to look at herself in the rearview mirror.
She was still pretty dammit and no one could fault her fashion sense. Who could when she was wearing Louboutin knee-high inky black suede, red bottom boots? A Valentino black leather pencil cut skirt and a cashmere poncho from Chanel.
Her pink, silvery locks, a masterpiece of color and cut thanks to her hairdresser, cascaded down her back in glossy waves. Her make-up, self-applied, only with the highest quality products was so seamless, that she looked like a goddess, even if she had to say so herself.
She was quintessentially young, rich, twenty-three years old, and living her best life.
Until...
She glanced at her newly acquiredHermèshandbag and sighed happily. Could anything look prettier? No. It was her new favorite thing ever, and she loved it more than an iced caramel macchiato, for the moment at least.
Her happy sigh soon turned into a pout though. It was also that very handbag that had broken the back of her last credit card and that had alerted her father which in turn had him looking a little too closely at things.
She preferred him when he was extremely busy being a brain surgeon who had almost no time for his daughter. But no, he had added up her expenses starting from eons ago, which shouldn’t count anymore in her opinion, added up all her maxed-out credit cards, of which there were too many, and then had walked into her bedroom and nearly died.
Her friends called her aglamor hoarderbecause she bought things to store her things all nice and neat. Her father hadn’t even known she’d had the wall separating her bedroom from the guest bedroom knocked down and so now her bedroom had twice the closet space plus more.
She had plans to do the same to the guest bedroom on the other side as well.
Space.
She needed space and lots of it.
Also, her obsession only included shoes, clothes, and all kinds of accessories, underwear, perfume, jewelry, and anything that would make her feel pretty.
She dropped her shoulders and pursed her lips to stop them from quivering. She wasn’t going to start crying now. First, because the only thing that would make her stop sobbing her heart out was a mall and there were no malls in her immediate future, secondly if she started crying now, she would never ever stop.
The truth remained her father no longer loved her. If he did, she wouldn’t be driving on one of the coldest days known tomankind, she didn’t care what a meteorologist would say, to a therapy retreat for shopaholics. He had blackmailed her into doing his bidding and it had come out of nowhere without so much as an inkling of a warning.
A week had passed since he’d discovered her excessive expenditure habits. In that time, he had scolded her for her wayward spending on things she wouldn’t ever need and clothes it would take her five lifetimes to wear.
He had said he’d pay off the credit cards, but it couldn’t happen again. She agreed but a small little purse here, a scarf there, a dress, and a ring in between, and her father was none the wiser. She just had to bid her time. It wouldn’t be long before her father’s focus shifted back to his work, and he’d forget she existed.
Just a matter of time.
But then one day, a week after her grand exposé, he came home to their mansion in the Hamptons,looking as if he carried the weight of the universe on his shoulders, and proceeded to tell her he had booked her into a therapy retreat for shopaholics.
She had to leave immediately.
If she didn’t agree, he was going to withhold her trust fund, which he had the power to do so, until she got proper help. The trust fund was the one her mother had left her and was due to come her way when she turned twenty-three, a mere two weeks away.
For the first time inher life, Harper had shivered at the words her father had delivered. Sheer panic had coated her skin.
It wasn’t about the money, but her father didn’t know that. It was about her mother’s jewelry. A broach, in particular, embossed with an emerald butterfly that her mother had always worn, to the day she died.
She had said it was her favorite thing in the whole world, until Harper came along, and she couldn’t wait to give the broach to her daughter, but only when Harper turned twenty-three because that was the same time her mother had received it from her mother.
