2. Autumn
2
AUTUMN
I 'm no fool. Someone's had their eye on me ever since the day I was born, and I can feel it like a shadow lingering just out of sight.
My nannies were the worst, a trio of women who seemed more interested in their own escapades than in caring for me. In between their trysts with my father, they made it a point to report back on my supposed comportment issues, which they exaggerated for their own amusement. "Autumn doesn't know her salad fork from her dinner fork," they'd whisper, snickering behind their hands. "Autumn keeps mixing up M and N when she's writing," they'd say, as if that was the gravest of sins. It was all so ridiculous, really. Yet, the moment I accidentally stabbed one of them with a pencil—a petty act of frustration—they vanished without a trace, whisked away in the back of a black van that seemed to materialize out of thin air. I never saw her again. It was just a pencil in the hand, a fleeting moment of chaos that led to her disappearance. I overheard a few of the maids muttering in hushed tones about how she was paid off and sent overseas to escape the fallout, but I was only ten at the time; what did I care about the fate of a woman who had never treated me with kindness?
After that incident, my dad took it upon himself to hire bodyguards to watch over me. These weren't just any guards; they were big, hulking men, their muscles bulging beneath their tailored suits, who stood like immovable statues in the hallways of our home. They didn’t flinch or wither under the gaze of a ten-year-old girl who was still trying to figure out the complexities of her own world. I never thought my stare was particularly frightening, but apparently, the nannies he was diddling on the side found it intimidating enough to warrant such heavy protection.
Sean Gallagher, my father, had a name to uphold, a legacy to maintain. The best way to do that, in his mind, was to ensure that his progeny were nothing short of perfect. This included my older brother, Liam, who wore the family name like a badge of honor, a shining emblem of the Gallagher legacy. He was groomed from the moment he drew his first breath to take over the vast Gallagher empire. With every stride he took, he seemed like a walking billboard for the family, embodying all the values and expectations that accompanied our surname. If you stood Sean and Liam side by side, you’d swear they were twins, the similarities striking except for the salt-and-pepper flecks in my dad's hair and the distinct receding hairline that spoke of his years. It would be kind of cute if I didn’t feel an underlying dread that Liam would dutifully do right by our father and have me shadowed for the entirety of my existence.
I can't shake the feeling that there will come a day when Dad hands over the rights to the cameras in our home to Liam. He'll frame it as a necessary precaution, telling his son that it’s vital to keep an eye on me because I’m a handful and need to be monitored for my own protection. There’s no telling what wild antics I might get up to if I’m left unattended. Knowing the twisted obsession they share over my life, I can easily picture them sitting together, watching the footage in some kind of grotesque viewing party, a bizarre circle jerk of voyeurism, indulging in the sight of me wandering around in a robe, engaging in animated discussions about the finer points of table setting with my college classmates.
But they aren’t the only ones keeping tabs on me. Just days after moving into the home my father purchased, three others took the plunge and bought houses on Sycamore Street. Two of them resembled people I thought I recognized from my childhood, likely family spies dispatched to monitor my every move and ensure my safety under the guise of neighborly kindness. But the third one was a little different—a presence that sent a shiver down my spine, hinting at secrets yet to be uncovered.
Enzo Bianchi—a name that seemed to incite a corrosive look on my dad's face the moment I brought it up. "A Bianchi lives on your street?" he asked disdainfully, his voice dripping with contempt. "Disgusting, Autumn. A waste of space and air." The bitterness in his tone was palpable, as if he were speaking of a particularly vile pest rather than a person.
I was well aware of the feud that had simmered between our families; I wasn't entirely oblivious to the tangled web of family politics. I did my best to stay out of the fray, but ignorance was not my luxury. "He seems like a nice guy, though. I brought him cookies the other day," I replied, trying to defend the only neighbor I’d had a chance to interact with.
"Stay away from him, my love. He is nothing but trouble," my father warned, his eyes narrowing as if that would somehow ward off any ill fate. Liam, my ever-loyal brother, nodded his head in agreement, his silence speaking volumes. He had no additional words of wisdom to offer, but he was always steadfast in supporting our father's perspective.
Yet, Enzo didn’t strike me as the quintessential bad boy type. After years spent in the company of my father's cronies, I had developed a keen sense for distinguishing between men who were genuinely good at heart and those who would readily stab you in the back. Although my conversations with my handsome neighbor had been few and far between, his expression was an open book to me. We had locked eyes across the street on several occasions, and the depth I found in his gaze suggested that he was far too nuanced to get embroiled in the petty family wars that plagued my father's world. There was something about the way he looked at me—a quiet sincerity that made me question everything I had been taught to believe.
I suppose I fell for him, or perhaps I fell for the fantasy that he represented. My thoughts often drifted to Enzo, an uninvited but frequent visitor in my mind. My father could bug my house and install tiny little cameras in every room, meticulously monitoring my every move, but he couldn’t invade the realm of my thoughts, a sanctuary where no surveillance could reach. I would sit in the living room with the curtains wide open, the sunlight spilling in, as I watched Enzo mow the front lawn shirtless, glistening with sweat under the sun's warm embrace. I’d see him pull weeds from his flower bed with a kind of determination that spoke volumes about his character. Or there he would be, washing and waxing his car by hand, every stroke a testament to his attention to detail. As I observed him, I began to weave daydreams, imagining a life intertwined with a man I knew so little about, yet felt inexplicably drawn to. I started to hope that he was looking in my windows as often as I was peering into his life.
There was no rhyme or reason for my newfound behavior, other than a flickering ember of hope, I suppose. I began wearing less, reveling in the summer air, opening more windows to let in the fresh breeze, and prancing around my living room with an almost reckless abandon whenever I could. The intent behind my antics was to catch Enzo’s attention, to lure him into my world, but he never seemed to look my way. Perhaps he was caught up in the family feud that had long simmered between the Gallaghers and the Bianchis, or maybe he simply didn’t think I was pretty enough to notice.
"Come on, Autumn," Isabella coos on the other end of the line, her voice a sweet, persistent melody, "you know you're restless. Just come on down to the strip. Please!"
If it were anyone else, I would have already been down there, swept up in the excitement of the night. I was bored out of my mind, trapped in my carefully curated, empty home, and it was a Friday night, the promise of adventure lingering in the air. The longer I walked through my quiet rooms, the more my boredom morphed into a restless energy that buzzed beneath my skin. But Isabella had a habit of getting overly wasted, a pattern I had grown all too familiar with. She didn’t know her limits, and we rarely found out what they were until after she had already exceeded them. One moment she would be upright, dancing with abandon on the dance floor, and the next, she would be slumped over, and I’d find myself seriously considering whether I needed to rush her to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. "Iz," I groan, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me, "I don't know."
She whines a few seconds longer, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "I promise to be good tonight," she swears, a hint of desperation in her tone. "I'm getting better at self-managing. Really, I am."
How many times have I heard that before? I don't even have enough fingers to count the countless promises she’s made, each one more fervent than the last. "I'm only wearing a slip, Isabella. It’s already nine." Why do I sound so old? It’s already nine? Who am I becoming?
Isabella giggles on the other end of the line, a sound that dances through the receiver. "Wear the slip, Autumn. You'll fit right in, and you still won't even be half as racy as the showgirls, or me, frankly."
I can only imagine what she's got on, likely something dazzling and provocative that she’s flaunting without a care. I chew on my bottom lip, stealing a glance at Enzo's bedroom window, my heartbeat quickening. For a split second, it looks like a shadow moves behind the curtain. I want to believe he’s watching me, that he cares about me like my family and all their goons do, but when a few seconds pass and I see no further movement, I sigh, disappointment settling in. I guess he doesn’t. "Alright, Iz. I'll be there shortly."
The squeal on the other end of the line is nearly deafening, a burst of excitement that makes me wince. "Don't forget your fake," she whispers, the implication clear, as if it’s the most important accessory of the evening.
It's already in my wallet, tucked away like a little secret. "See you soon. Drink water!" I say, my voice a mix of urgency and excitement before hanging up the phone. I start gathering my things, the thrill of the night ahead coursing through me. Any other woman might take her sweet time to get ready, meticulously applying makeup and choosing the perfect outfit, but I push my father's limits daily. If someone snaps a picture of me tonight and it ends up plastered across the tabloids, it'll be his job to spin the story. Underage Autumn Gallagher's night out on the town—your move, Dad.
I quickly switch out the robe for a thigh-length black blazer, its sharp lines giving me a sense of empowerment, and I slip on a pair of high heels that are as stunning as they are treacherous. If I take a spill, I’m sure to sprain my ankle, but the risk only adds to the thrill. Underneath, the satin red slip peeks out, luxurious and daring, while my wild head of red curls tumbles around my shoulders like a fiery crown. I'm a modern-day Merida, ready to carve my own path through the neon jungle of Vegas. I guess it's time for an adventure.