Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
One year later
CADENCE
I gasp as Arnold navigates his luxurious, late-model Mercedes around the twisty, narrow bend in the hilltop road and his house comes into view. Among the gorgeous properties dotting the summit, it’s easily the most spectacular.
Seaside cottage , he said while collecting us from the hotel room he’d generously financed for the past week. His understated description doesn’t even come close.
The property has a soaring glass frontage that reflects the clouds, tricking my eye into thinking it stretches up forever. The windows are set between shale stacked sides, the rocks adding black, brown, grey, and the pale green of lichen to the spectacle, another mirage as they blend with the tussock coated hills behind.
A mansion. At least. Maybe even an estate.
I guess that’s what being a Fletcher of the owns-half-of-downtown-Christchurch-and-runs-a-Marlborough-Winery-for-fun Fletchers gets you.
Mum reaches back to squeeze my forearm. “Isn’t it fantastic?”
“And then some.”
It eclipses every other house I’ve seen in real life, giving even those on fancy designer shows a run for their money.
To go from the rundown hostel where the raggedy old sofa served as my bed and our dining table besides its primary function—planting our arses on to watch the world’s cheapest TV—to this?
I blink back ecstatic tears, feeling like Cinderella.
Last week, a guy cornered me in the emergency housing stairwell, demanding I prostitute myself for his client list with a generous offer to keep forty percent of what I earned.
The, “No, thanks,” didn’t take.
We spent the nights after huddled together, our few pieces of furniture barricading the door while Mum reached out to every number on her phone. Relief flooded me to the point of tears when she told me Arnold—an old booty call—had offered us a place to stay.
I never imagined anything like this .
My pulse races like my nerves are working hard to find trouble. I used to be understandably wary, but nowadays, I panic at nothing.
This place is fantastic. We’re being offered the opportunity of a lifetime. Yet here I am, tense, waiting for disaster.
I bite on the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stop as he pulls up outside the open garage. I count another three cars parked inside, with room for at least twice that many.
Fuck my fear.
This is too good to waste.
The moment Arnold stops the car, I’m out of the back seat, running past the carefully landscaped garden, jumping over the moat—the moat!!!— of an expansive water feature to reach the front door.
It’s even better than the weekend trips Mum and I took years back, going to a slew of open homes for cheap entertainment. We would eat whatever refreshments were on offer while we saw how the other half lived.
Those working-class peasants.
I feel embarrassed for believing they had it sweet because look at this place.
“Stop!”
Arnold’s sharp tone makes me freeze in surprise. An adrenaline dump makes my vision pulse white.
Then my fight-or-flight retreats at his smile.
“The alarm’s on when I’m asleep or not home.” He tips me a wink that shaves five years off his age. “Better let me do the honours.”
He goes ahead of me, the midday sun shining on his thinning hair while his well-padded arse jiggles with each step. For a rich guy, he’s not bad, but definitely a five to Mum’s ten—the world working like it should.
Setting his looks aside, so far, he’s far nicer than any of her exes. She’s always had an irresistible draw to a bad boy, panties dropping at the first hint of a mean smile.
But I can’t imagine Arnold being the impetus behind any late-night escapes, tiptoeing past the drunk or stoned dude sharing her bed.
Just the attempt to picture it makes me laugh and the burst of good humour eases the last of my discomfort away.
“M’lady,” he says, sweeping his arm through the entrance when the box beeps, lights turning green. “After you.”
I lunge through the door, getting halfway across the marble floor of the entrance before stopping, mouth open at the spectacle. A curved staircase in the same stone leads off to my right. To my left is the wall of glass, three storeys high, offering a panoramic view over the water.
Nothing has ever taken my breath away before, but my mouth gapes open and closed like a fish on land. “Holy…”
“Told you,” Mum says, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she walks inside. “I can’t wait to show you your room.”
“Put a pin in that,” Arnold says, slipping a hand around her waist. “I’ve only got twenty minutes for lunch before I have to get back to the office.”
“You work on a Saturday?” I shake my head. “If I lived in a place like this, I’d retire early and spend all my days staring at the ocean view.”
“You do live here,” he gently reminds me, a sentiment that startles me, then makes my heart squeeze with joy. “And what you’ll be doing Monday to Friday is attending school.”
Ah. The fly in the ointment.
Much as I love the fact Arnold thought me worth the money and effort of enrolling me in Ashford Crest Academy—a place the richest people waitlist their kids for from birth—the actual attendance makes my stomach knot.
New students, new teachers, old heritage buildings. On top of the base-level anxiety I still have from the attack last year, it’s a whole heap of sleepless nights.
But that’s Monday, and it’s only Saturday. I won’t ruin the entire weekend with negative thoughts.
Especially when, knowing my mother’s capacity for ill-timed mental breakdowns, we might be kicked out by then.
“Don’t worry.” Arnold reads my mind. “When my son drags himself home tomorrow, you’ll know at least one student there and Blaine didn’t have any trouble fitting in last year.”
Thoughts of my as-yet-unintroduced almost-stepbrother take a back seat to the warm gratitude that floods me like the midday sun floods the spotless kitchen.
The gentle adult reassurance is something that’s always been absent in my life. Although it’s been eight years since my last stay in a foster home, Mum still struggles to take care of herself and me. But my new quasi-stepfather appears to have an effortless handle on the skills she’s missing.
I practically dance my way into the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t we unpack first?” My mother plucks at the skin of her neck, a nervous habit she’s passed to me.
“Emily will sort all that,” he assures her.
With perfect timing, a stern-faced woman walks past the window carrying our worldly possessions, all two duffel bags full.
“Is she your maid?”
“Housekeeper.” He lowers his voice. “And never, ever suggest anything different or you’ll have a cold shoulder for a month. She’s still upset I moved last year and condemned her to life on the side of a hill. Apparently, it involves far too many stairs.”
I’m still giggling as he moves to the pantry and withdraws a tray laden with meats, cheeses, slices of crusty bread, and wholegrain crackers.
“Is that a charcuterie board?” I ask, pinching myself because we’ve now entered a level of fanciness I wasn’t sure existed. The nod immediately prompts another question. “Is it all for us?”
“Unless you’ve invited someone else.” He fetches a stack of plates with delicate scalloped edges and hands them to us. “We’re pretty casual about meals here, so just help yourself.”
Casual.
Arnold clearly needs a new dictionary.
I swap a delighted grin with my mother before we devour the feast.
When Arnold excuses himself half an hour later, dragging his feet, I walk him out to the car while Mum stores what’s left from our lunch.
“Thank you so much for inviting us to stay. It’s incredibly generous when you haven’t known us long.”
“You’re welcome, and I have good instincts. One reason I’m successful.”
He pauses for a second, blue eyes twinkling as Mum comes out to say goodbye as well.
“And it’s closer to a year. After our first couple of dates, I thought she ghosted me.” His expression turns winsome as she joins us, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of her forehead. “You can’t believe how happy I was to reconnect.”
A year. Around the time of the incident at school. Mum had also ‘mislaid’ the message the school secretary left on her voicemail that day, leaving me to make my way home.
Either an oversight—it isn’t the first time she’s forgotten messages the instant she hears them—or an avoidance pattern. When she’s mired in the mood swings of her disorder, everything takes on a negative spin. Easier to delete a slew of messages than listen to one that might drop her into a pit for days.
We watch him reverse out the driveway, then Mum laughs, swinging me into a gigantic hug as my muscles fully relax for the first time in days. “I knew you’d love it. I tell you, this time it’s the real deal.”
She hurries us back inside, glowing as we enter my new bedroom.
Despite climbing the staircase to reach it, the windows are at ground level thanks to the steep slope of the land. The outlook is narrower than the flagrant display of the glass wall, but the view is just as stunning.
The centrepiece of the room is a princess bed I’m far too old for but instantly adore. I jump onto the mattress, lying back with my arms crossed over my chest—sleeping beauty waiting for the prince’s kiss to wake her. The canopy of pink ruffles makes my girly heart reverberate with joy.
“Look at this wardrobe,” my mother squeals, hurrying across the deep pile carpet to fling open the double doors, showing me a space larger than any bedroom I’ve lived in before.
And that’s just the room for my clothes.
My smile fades a little at the uniforms hanging from the railing, but soon returns as I toss my bag inside to unpack later, and cross to the other internal door.
The bathroom takes my breath away. The showerhead has so many nozzles, taps, and buttons I’ll need an instruction manual, but I’m happy to dedicate some quality alone time to solving the puzzle.
Next to it is a deep bathtub with jets like a fancy spa pool. A lineup of bottles promises bubbles of any scent, while the lush pile of white towels tempts me with thoughts of taking a dozen baths a day.
“Lock the door. I’m never leaving this room.”
I open drawers to find supplies of everything I could need. Lotions and perfumes and a sliding tray of makeup more extensive than the posh department store in town. There are combs and nets and fancy clips, a hairdryer with a full drawer of attachments along with separate curlers and straighteners.
“He said he wasn’t sure what we’d need, so sent his secretary to buy a range.”
“A range.” I roll my eyes at the understatement and Mum wrinkles her nose, nodding, face alight. “If you don’t want him, I’ll marry him.”
I want to indulge in every luxury on offer, commit every perfect second of blissful extravagance to memory before our internal messiness infects this sparkling clean household and we’re inevitably asked to leave.
She bursts out laughing, close to hysteria—and I know because I’m halfway there myself. The change from a week ago is so extreme I can’t quite believe it’s happening. Yet the evidence is all around me.
I knock my knuckles on the vanity counter.
It’s real.
Mum raises her eyebrows at me. “Swim?”
Before he left, Arnold told us about a path at the back of the property, zigzagging down the cliff face to a private beach. Apparently, other teenagers use a swimming platform in the harbour that’s an easy distance away, and he suggested it might be a good way to meet and make new friends.
And hell, yes. I’m on board.
There are half a dozen new swimsuits in the wardrobe, all in my size. I choose a black one-piece with a multitude of cut-outs, exposing almost as much as the bikini I leave behind.
While I’m admiring myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the rear of the wardrobe door, a sparkle of reflected light draws my eye. I walk closer, squinting into the corner as I turn my head from side to side, trying to find it again.
“Cadence?” my mother yells from downstairs and I jump, putting a hand to my chest as I laugh to release the tension.
Closing the door behind me, I hurry down the stairs, ready to check out yet another feature from my new fairytale life.