Chapter 2 How It’s Going
How was your morning?
Mine sucked.
But the rest of the day is going to be better. That’s not mindless optimism. Growing up in the same house as Luke Langdon has taught me a lot of valuable lessons.
I know how to execute a plan of attack—whether the target is starting a new life or pulling strings for a hostile takeover.
Today, my father proved that he’s an asshole, not just to random people, or people clinging to the lower rungs of his corporate ladder. No, he’s even a jerk to me, his only daughter.
I knew it was coming. He’s been busy, distant, and disapproving my whole life, but without my mother around to act as a buffer, he became a lot worse. My mom used to yank him into the position of husband and father for a few stolen hours at a time.
That hasn’t happened in almost eight years. I’ve tried to be patient. I know he was a crappy husband, but he really did love her. I try to remind myself of that when he treats me like a hired lackey or fails to contact me for a whole semester.
Telling me it was his way or no way snapped something in me.
When I left my dad’s office, I did two things.
First, I almost fainted from the heat. It’s ninety degrees in New York!
It’s the middle of August, but yes, I was wearing a stupid fall sweater with coppery autumn eyeshadow to match.
Why was I wearing this Pumpkin Spice ensemble, you ask?
Because I had known I would be spending several hours in my father’s personal office, which is chilly no matter the season.
Dad—I can’t even call him that right now—Luke Langdon, corporate shark and jerkface, keeps the thermostat set to precisely 61 degrees.
He likes the surroundings to match his cold attitude when people come to ask for money.
So, after almost fainting, I moved on to item two.
I went to the bank and pulled out most of my savings, checking, and my CDs.
Yeah, despite the fact that I’m the kid of a millionaire, that’s all the money I have access to.
Everything else is in his pockets or the trust my mother set up for me.
I can access a few hundred thousand dollars when I turn twenty-five (next year), but by then, I’m sure Double L will have figured out a way to screw me out of that, too.
I could be angry about that, but right now I’m so effing angry about everything else. Being focused on money just makes me more like him, and that kills me.
Another thing I’ve learned from living with him—shove emotions into boxes and ignore them. He goes to the office. I go to the kitchen.
As I take the elevator up to the penthouse I share with my father (if he bothers to leave the office pull-out couch, private bathroom, and closet full of “spare suits”), I realize that focusing on the money isn’t going to help, and I don’t have time to “Angry-Bake.” Focusing on the problem and executing the solution is what’s going to help.
Because by God, I’ve put off my dream since I was seventeen and was told I could only apply to hand-selected colleges that offered a business degree.
I’m not going to wait another second to make up for lost time.
The money I put into my new checking account—which only I can control—came to just over ten thousand dollars, which is a fortune to many people. To the Langdons, it’s a pittance.
I grind my back teeth together. Time to burst that stupid, rich girl bubble. I never liked it anyway.
“The money doesn’t matter. People make it to the top starting with nothing. I can do this. I need a cheaper place to live. A cheaper school to attend. Most importantly, I have to be out of here by the time he gets home.”
Yes, I do talk to myself. It happens when no one listens to you.
I’m going to have to pack all this stuff. I’m going to have to hire a moving van. I have to have a place to move to, and a job once I get there.
“The great chefs have two options,” I tell myself as I look at the autographed poster of Duff Goldman that hangs over the desk in my bedroom. “We can go to culinary school or work our way up through the kitchens. Restaurant jobs can’t be too hard to come by, not if you’re willing to work.”
I carefully pull the sticky tack off the corners of the poster and free Duff from the wall. “You're coming with me, Duff. It’s just you and me, now.”
Duff is my idol, and he’s my template for future boyfriends—the kind I know I’ll never have.
He’s cute and funny, and that’s what I’m after.
You can’t have boyfriends that are hot, tall, and ripped like a Greek god when you’re a fat, round little potato of a woman.
Well, maybe you can, but they’re probably a-holes.
Also, my ideal man has to be good in the kitchen and encourage my skills, not care about money, and be open to someone with baggage and Daddy issues.
Like I said, this isn’t going to happen.
I’m as likely to find a guy like that as I am to find a unicorn chilling in the park.