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I can’t believe shema’am-ed me. What am I, forty?
Bella rolls her eyes discreetly behind her back as we follow her perky little ass in a pencil skirt, perched on high heels. “She looks more of a ma’am than you,” she whispers.
My sister knows me too well. I grin, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “I missed you, doll.”
I’ve never traveled in one of the Valmont jets, though I knew they owned them. After two hours on a commercial flight—although my parents splurged for first class—I can attest that, while a disgusting waste of natural resources and a nonsensical financial expense, it’snice.
Deep, soft leather armchairs; marble, hardwood, and cream accents; priceless art on the walls. The cabin’s nicer than your average presidential residence. It doesn’t even feel like a plane, even during takeoff. And it doesn’t hurt that the attendant plies us with champagne and petit fours. I don’t even mind the nasty looks they shoot me when they think no one else can catch them.
“I wonder if she spat in your drink?” Bella asks when the bitch returns to the front.
I grimace, staring at the crystal glass, already half empty although it’s a refill.
Did I mention they havegoodchampagne?
After reflection, I shrug. “Meh. Worth it.”
“You’re disgusting,” Bella states.
“Do they know you’re seventeen, by the way?”
We seamlessly fall back to our habit of being nasty to each other for fun.
She only rolls her eyes. “We’re in the air, bitch. No such law applies here.”
In truth, Andaria is greatly influenced by its three neighboring countries: Italy, France and Austria. What do they have in common? None care about serving alcohol to people under the official legal age—eighteen. Most parents serve us watered-down wine as teens. And after spending a fair amount of time in the UK, I’m convinced it’s the way to go.
British people go insane the moment they’re eighteen and out of the house, getting blind drunk every weekend, just because they can. To me, alcohol was never a big deal. I get tipsy, sure, but I can’t remember ever getting drunk enough to forget anything—which is a weekly occurrence for most of my friends.
“We’re in Andarian airspace,” I retort primly. “All laws apply.”
“So, sue me.”
The flight is actually pretty long, considering the short distance: forty minutes. Planes tend to stay fairly low and go slow for local journeys. We bicker all the way through, and the next thing I know, we’re ushered into fancy cars and driven up the gorgeous, snowy mountains.
I’ve never been up here. The Andarian portion of the Alps isn’t all that large, and fancy people own huge estates, locking the common people away. There’s exactly one ski station, and from what I remember my schoolmates saying, it’s never busy. The richest of the rich own the entire mountain range. My family and I, of course, used to ski in France and Italy, with the rest of the working class.
I’ve seen it on TV, in the news and on some local movies—all terrible, from slasher flicks to romcoms—and it looks just as picturesque as it does on the screen.
“Look!” Bella says, practically jumping in her seat as she points toward my window.
I glance in the direction she indicated, and find a castle in the distance. An actual, honest-to-god castle, with turrets, white stone, and a blue tiled roof.
That can’t possibly be our parents’ place. In fact, I know it isn’t. I’ve seen pictures. Their wood chalet is lovely, and cozy.
Yet for some reason, the car slows down.
“That’s the Valmonts’ house,” my sister tells me.
Oh god.
Why are the lights on?
Why are we slowing down?
But to my immense relief, the driver takes a turn into a driveway, and the castle disappears behind us.
Still, we’re a stone’s throw away from the Valmonts.
