Roses, Pearls, and Hot Summer Nights (The Newport Diaries #1)

Chapter 1

O n the screen, I made the character move, shifting the position of her arms as tears dropped from her eyes and the next frame started.

She rose and turned to look at the audience as my editing software made a whirr of a sound, keeping up with me.

The scene was turning out well, and I couldn’t wait to publish it on my stream so people could see it.

Too many weeks had passed since I last wrote and filmed Gretchen the Poor Relation , but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to animate—not since the move.

It was too hard. The first weeks in a new place were for surviving, so creating while coping with it had never been part of my process.

Once I was on at least semi-solid ground again, I knew it would come back for me.

The chime of the grandfather clock in the hall marked the time as five o’clock.

It struck every hour, day and night, right outside my room.

I gritted my teeth for the hundredth time.

No one cared that it woke me from sleep, claiming it was my problem, and they suggested— ordered —me to wear headphones at night if I didn’t care for the “eloquent noise” of an ancient piece that had been in her— our —family for generations.

“Alatheia,” my aunt called from across the apartment, causing me to shut off my recording.

I would edit it out later, so that no one heard my name when I aired it on stream.

If my followers found out my identity, I would be in trouble.

Things were hard enough without being discovered.

Maybe someday I could tell people . . . if I ever got to be as brave as the person I pretended to be online.

I shared so much with so many, but what I didn’t say? That was the really interesting stuff.

I sighed before I answered her. “Yep.”

She opened my door without knocking, but that wasn’t surprising. I wasn’t permitted privacy because I lived in her home. My own anxiety about this was inconsequential, and I knew better than to bring it up. They really didn’t care, and it would only make them angry because I mentioned it at all.

At least for the moment I lived there, anyway.

Last night, I heard them discussing sending me off to a boarding school.

Sadly, that wasn’t a surprise either. When my mother died five years ago, leaving me dependent on the family that hated her, I knew they eventually would send me away to a boarding school—preferably somewhere they would never have to see me again.

But at sixteen, maybe I’d finally reached the point where it wouldn’t make them feel guilty to send me away?

She liked to remind me it was her room and how I didn’t belong there because I wasn’t her daughter. Her reminders never stopped, so I always remembered I was lucky I had a bed.

She shook her head, her expression annoyed. “Oh, there you are. What are you doing in here again? What do you do in this room all day every day?”

I blinked. “Sleep, sometimes.”

She rolled her eyes. “You have a credit card and the entirety of Manhattan at your doorstep. When Sarah was your age, she was always busy, always out doing things.”

Well, Sarah had friends from going to school here for years. I knew from experience she wouldn’t care about my excuses, and her point was made. I could leave my room more. I just … didn’t want to.

Aunt Tricia practically glistened with beauty, but she paid a lot to look like she didn’t pay anything to look that way.

Her upkeep took hours each day. Personally, I couldn’t imagine spending that much time staring at my own face, since it seemed an enormous waste of time.

I would rather read books, watch movies, draw, or stream—not that she knew anything about my interests.

I didn’t get to spend time worrying about my beauty, or lack thereof.

I had to survive this still intact if I wanted to have a full life when it was over.

She would probably freak out if she knew about my streams. I could imagine the fireworks if I admitted it, in fact.

“Are you even listening to me?” She lifted a sculpted brown eyebrow—a feat she couldn’t have accomplished the week prior.

Regular Botox injections kept her looking perky and interested all the time—except for right after the procedure, when she seemed utterly emotionless. The effect freaked me out a little bit.

Well, that and the fact that she looked just like my mother. It wasn’t surprising, since they were identical twins, but my mom probably wouldn’t have looked like her sister if she’d lived. Mom never had the money for that level of treatment and pampering.

I tried to picture her face still, sometimes. Most of the time I failed.

Five years is a long time. Five years, three relatives. Four, if you count my uncle’s wife.

“No,” I answered her question about me listening.

Generally, I preferred not to lie, sticking to the facts, other than the big lie.

I couldn’t keep track of more than one huge, life-changing lie at a time, or so it seemed.

I didn’t count the stream, since I’d never been asked about that, so I technically wasn’t lying. Sort of.

She perched carefully on the edge of my bed. “Alatheia, I was talking to Sarah about you today.”

I couldn’t even be bothered to pretend surprise.

I remained her favorite topic of conversation— complaint —lately.

At first, she used me to elicit sympathy from her friends.

Eventually, she admitted how stressed and undone my presence made her.

They would all understand when she finally sent me away.

Without any other living relatives willing to take me, I wouldn’t have a choice regarding my boarding school.

“How is she?” It seemed the politest response I could give under the circumstances.

She frowned, or as much as her Botox allowed. “Fine. She’s stressed and worried about me.”

Of course she is. What else would there be to complain about, except the parentless poor relation they were forced to handle? Even though Sarah is always in London.

She continued. “We both agreed it’s time for you to get out of the house.

School doesn’t start for three more months, and since we couldn’t get you into Pullman because of your poor grades and you’ll be attending Motifs, we can’t help you socially.

Despite that, I have to get you out of the apartment. I can’t have you underfoot all day.”

I stared at her as if she’d sprouted two heads. Honestly, I simply couldn’t stand her bullshit. “I’m in this room. I’m not bothering you. I don’t even eat in front of you.”

She waved her hand like I hadn’t spoken.

Swallowing, I pushed away my fear of physical reactions from her.

I supposed I was lucky, since my Aunt Amelia, her older sister, would have smacked the shit out of me.

“I’ve spoken to Dina on the first floor.

You know her apartment? The one with the red walls. ”

How would I know who Dina was, and why mention her red walls? Was the color inherently bad?

I blinked twice before finally responding, “No, I don’t.”

She ignored me anyway. “You’re going to go see her, and she’ll have things for you to do.”

Really? She had to be kidding. “Am I going to get paid for this … visiting Dina and doing things for her, or am I just volunteering because you want me out of the house?”

My aunt rose. “Don’t be obtuse, Alatheia.”

That doesn’t answer my question.

Still, I didn’t fight her command to visit Dina.

Why would I? She wanted me out of the apartment, so I would be out of the apartment.

I didn’t have rights, since my only obligation was to be grateful twenty-four hours a day.

They didn’t have to take me in, as they reminded me all the time, though it was sometimes through a glance.

The statement hung heavy in every gesture, every look, and every reminder that I wasn’t actually theirs.

The doorman directed me to Dina’s apartment, as there were four on every floor except the penthouse. I sighed, thinking how the one with the red walls didn’t help. Despite normally ignoring me, the doorman at least answered when I spoke directly to him, so I found the apartment easily.

I had lifted my hand to knock on her door when a male voice called out to me, making me whirl around.

“Don’t bother. She can’t hear you. I tell her to put her hearing aids in all the time, but she doesn’t. Stubborn.” As the guy approached, I could tell that he was around my age. Maybe slightly older but not so much that he triggered my ick factor. Weird, but not creepy.

If I were being totally honest, I found him cute in an adorable way.

Like he’d be hot if I saw him on a beach somewhere without a shirt.

My lips thinned when I noticed his expensive clothes, his perfect haircut, and his straight white teeth.

The shoes alone screamed he was one of them.

If we ended up in school together, he would refuse to speak to me like the rest of them .

Over the past five years, I’d learned you could tell a lot about someone based on their shoes.

It might sound silly, but to me, it turned out the shoes mattered.

Saves me a lot of time and heartache.

“Sorry, but who are you?” I crossed my arms across my chest and scanned him head to toe. “The knocking police for apartment ten?”

Cutie-who-was-probably-hot smirked at me. “I’m her grandson stopping by to visit. Who are you seems like the more important question. So, why are you knocking on her door?”