Chapter One #3
She flinches, like I’ve brushed against an open wound.
We both rarely mention my sister’s name.
At fifteen, she’s only fourteen months younger than me.
Irish twins, Mom used to say. But Mom just shakes her head.
“You don’t understand what happened,” she whispers. “What we did. If I could undo it all—”
“Mom.” I squeeze her hands, cutting her off before she can spiral.
She’s never actually said what happened back in England, but honestly, who gives a fuck at this point.
We’ve been in the States since I was six.
Unless her and my dad killed somebody, I’d like to think I’d be able to get over anything if it meant being there for my own kid.
That thought has my next words coming out a little harsher than I intend.
“We all have shit we’d undo if we could.
But you can’t keep drinking away the past. You have to deal. ”
Tears spill over, quick and hot, and she turns her face away from me. “Just go then. Not like you care anyway.”
My throat burns, but I force my voice to stay calm. “That’s not true.”
My stomach cramps into angry knots. My mom loves to twist every word until you don’t know what’s real anymore.
I know it’s not on purpose—it’s just how she survives.
She clings to pain the way I cling to control.
Maybe that’s our family inheritance—holding tight to the things that feel like help but only hurt us in the end.
I stand and let her fingers slip from mine. “I love you, Mom,” I say, meaning every word, even when it hurts to say it. To feel it. She doesn’t look at me. “Bye.”
After sending the woman behind the counter a meaningful look, I exit the building.
I lean against the brick facade, heave a sigh, and close my eyes for a moment.
The rush of city traffic goes whipping by, making the air stir, and I open my eyes, surprised my mom isn’t standing in front of me, begging me to take her back home.
I push away from the building and flag down a cab.
Normally I’d take the subway, but I don’t have it in me to be underground right now—not when this might be the last time I see New York for who knows how long.
When I’m settled into the back and the driver has the address of the private airfield entered into his GPS, I open the Notes app in my phone and start a new note titled PETER PAYBACK.
If that asshole thinks I’m going to spend a single dime of my own hard-earned money pulling his ass out of the fire, he’s got another think coming.
The way I see it, he could compensate me for every dollar I’ve ever spent and that wouldn’t even begin to cover the compensation I’m owed.
After all, he’s responsible for Mom’s demise.
She’s never been able to get over him.
So I guess it’s true what they say—there’s no accounting for taste.
Me? I hate Peter Vale. It’s a burning fire that lives in my gut, always there, flickering to life whenever I think about him.
Like now.
I lean back against the cracked seat and put my earbuds in, a sign to my driver that I don’t want to engage in conversation.
I open my phone and check my texts, but I don’t have any.
Then check social media. I haven’t posted in months.
I’m more of a lurker—a spy who checks out other people’s lives but never posts about her own.
Not that anyone cares. I’ve been doing online school since I was a freshman and already got my high school degree an entire year early.
It was easy. School is a joke. A racket.
One I’m going back to like an idiot, but sometimes we have to do things we hate to help the people we love. The people we let down.
Not Peter. That guy can go fuck himself.
But Isla? Isla I let down, and now my sister desperately needs my help. And by God, I’m going to help her, no matter what it takes.
When we finally arrive at the private airfield, I pay the driver in cash and record the amount on Peter’s tab. I climb out of the car, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and head into the small building, my voice monotone when I tell the woman sitting behind the desk my name.
“The plane has been waiting for you.” Her nose wrinkles like I stink as she studies me over her glasses.
I’m wearing my typical uniform: black-and-burgundy-striped tank top and black jeans with knockoff Doc Martens, layers of silver necklaces I love to pile on, and bracelets in every material from leather to metal to string on both wrists.
I flick my dark hair away from my eyes, frowning at her.
Her disapproval is a sharp top note to her floral, overly sweet perfume.
Well fuck her.
I offer the woman a curt nod and stride outside like I own the place, running on pure instinct.
The plane is waiting for me, just like she said it would be.
The aircraft’s stairs are down, and a man stands by the base.
His gaze narrows on mine as I draw closer, a fake smile slowly turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Miss Winters?” I stop short, the name catching me off guard.
For a heartbeat, I almost correct him—then I remember the deal I made with my dad. And just like that, Billie Vale no longer exists.
I’m Belinda Winters now.
The name feels awkward in my mouth, like I’ve just taken a too-big bite of ice cream and I have to wait for it to melt a little before I can chew or swallow or even breathe.
I remind myself that Belinda is my legal name, though hardly anyone’s used it in my living memory.
My grandmother’s maiden name on my mother’s side was Winters—a factoid Peter shared like he has any right to mine and Mom’s family history.
“Yup. That’s me.” I nod once, gripping the backpack strap extra tight, trying to hold steady against a sudden wave of nerves.
I can do this. I haven’t let myself feel afraid for years, but that bravery only works in the face of all the old familiar terrors.
Mom not waking up from a blackout. Getting evicted.
Never finding a way out of the shitty circumstances that have defined my life so far.
This is new. Different. Foreign.
I’m going to need a new kind of bravery. And I’m going to have to fake it until I figure it out.
Starting right now.
“We’re ready for you to board.” He makes a sweeping gesture up to the open plane door. I practically run up the stairs, pausing as I enter to take in the luxurious interior of the private jet my estranged father arranged for me.
It reeks of wealth and power, and as much as I hate to admit it, wealth and power smell good.
Expensive. The cream-colored leather interior and sleek lights are a far cry from the industrial-looking sardine can–sized planes I’ve seen on TV.
Plush carpet squishes under my boots, and I have the unhinged urge to take them off and sink my toes in.
I throw myself into a seat and drop my bag into the empty chair next to me.
I strap in, politely refusing the offer of food and drink from the smiley flight attendant.
My chest tightens painfully, and I absently rub at the space above my heart. Peter Vale owns this plane. A plane that has its own private flight attendant and staff. A plane that’s at his disposal at any time, day or night. Meaning he could’ve come to see me any time he wanted to, but did he?
No. Never. Not once.
I only know what he looks like because of photos on the internet. His voice was totally unfamiliar to me until a couple of days ago, when I picked up a call from an unknown number. I need you, he said. I laughed when I heard those words.
Please. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t even know me. He’s just using me, which is fine.
I’m using him, too.
The moment the pilot announces we’re preparing for takeoff, I tense up.
I don’t remember the only other time in my life when I flew—back when I was six years old, and Mom couldn’t stop crying, and we were leaving England behind for our new life in America.
Our new life … alone together. Without Peter.
Without Isla. Clenching the armrests, I take a deep breath, telling myself I’m fine.
The plane won’t crash. Thousands of planes are in the air right now. This is nothing.
But it feels like everything.
I’m a knot of nerves through takeoff, but when the flight attendant finally says it’s safe to move around the cabin, my grip loosens and my shoulders drop away from my ears.
Maybe I’m still shaking inside, but I’m doing it—I’m moving forward.
I’m committed now. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of taking care of someone who only ever breaks promises, it’s how to keep mine.
I unbuckle, grab my backpack, and make for the bathroom at the back of the cabin.
I yank open the door and close it behind me with a metallic click.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I take a long last look at the old me. Billie Vale may have boarded this plane, but Belinda Winters is stepping off it. I can’t be me anymore if I’m going to have any hope of pulling this off. Might as well lean into being her.
I take out and unzip a tiny, satin-lined bag before I start removing my jewelry.
The nose ring comes out first, then my rows of three tiny silver hoop earrings in each ear.
Next, I peel off the necklaces, not bothering to untangle the chains before dumping them in.
I shake off the bangles, then undo the tiny clasps of the smaller bracelets, dropping them in the bag with the necklaces.
I straighten and stare at my reflection, taking in the heavy black eyeliner, thick mascara, and pale foundation I wear.
I use the last of my makeup wipes to smear it off before I wash my face, scrubbing until my skin hurts and my cheeks glow pink.
There’s one more piece to this puzzle, and it might be the most important.
I pull out the box of hair dye I bought at the Duane Reade closest to Doug’s bar, and follow the instructions, praying I don’t damage my hair so badly it all falls out.
As I add the color, I stare in the mirror, repeating the same words over and over.
“Belinda Winters, Manhattan socialite.” I make a face. Like I’d ever say that to someone. “Yes, hello. I’m Belinda Winters. Belinda. Yes, from Manhattan.”
I keep repeating nonsense phrases until I find Belinda’s voice.
“And then I said you have to stop, that’s not our yacht!
” Higher, I think, and a little brighter.
“I mean seriously, Malta is so 2022.” A touch more nasal.
“Where’d I get this bag? I mean, it’s vintage Givenchy, so like …
heaven, I guess?” Annnd there she is. Belinda’s laugh tinkles like a bell made of sunshine and generational wealth.
While waiting for the color to set, I pick up my phone and archive all my social media, wiping myself from existence with a few taps on a screen. I suppose Peter has a team of people who could vanish my online footprint, replacing it with the newly formed New York socialite I’m now supposed to be.
God, this all sounds like a nightmare, but one I’m determined to conquer.
Once the timer is up, I wash my hair by leaning into the tiny shower and using the handheld nozzle.
The water pressure is shit, and it takes forever to rinse the color out.
The water swirling down the drain runs dark and strange—like I’m watching the last version of me disappear.
When it finally runs clear, I grab a towel and dry my hair as best I can.
Then I turn toward the mirror, and my mouth drops open, my fair skin turning even paler when I see my new color.
Oh no. It looks freaking terrible.
Dear old Dad is going to kill me.