Jaime
JAIME
Florida is humid as hell. It’s been a while since I’ve been home at this time of year. Most of my summer was spent between Bali and the West Coast—totally not avoiding my family—and as I step out of the town car and my sunglasses steam up, I realize I haven’t actually set foot in my family home since Christmas last year, because our family spent Thanksgiving at our cabin in Whistler.
Standing in the paved courtyard, staring up at the white pillars and foreboding black doors, I steel myself for what awaits me on the other side. I’ve barely taken a step forward when the doors swing open, and three women come rushing out.
“Miss ! Hurry, hurry!”
Despite the horrors that lay ahead of me, I smile as Mary, my childhood nanny and housekeeper, comes hurrying down the steps, her long black hair piled into a messy bun barely touched by gray despite approaching sixty. Not far behind her are Lotta, our head of housekeeping, and Rosalita, who’s responsible for looking after the women of the house. These three women have been more present in my life than my own mother, and my heart swells at the sight of them. Not that they give me chance to greet them properly.
“Too skinny, Miss ,” Mary chides as she wraps her hand around my arm and tugs me toward the house. She’s worked for my family in the States for the last thirty years, but her thick Filipino accent remains unaffected.
In contrast, Lotta’s German accent is a hilarious mashup of harsh Bavarian interspersed with rounded American vowels. “We only have two hours to get you ready,” she clips as they usher me through the foyer. Despite her harsh tone, and the sharp angles of her face, her gray eyes are nothing but warm as she looks me over for signs of neglect.
“Dios mío,” Rosalita mutters, and I stifle a laugh at the stress my mother appears to have put these incredible women under.
Rosalita was the last to join my mother’s faithful team, appearing when I was nine. Her husband tends to our gardens and their son cleans our pools and maintains the sports facilities. My cheeks heat at the thought of Jordy. Watching him during high school as he cleaned the pool with his shirt off had been my sexual awakening.
As we ascend one of the sweeping onyx staircases that lead to the upper floor, I barely have time to glance around for any sign of my mother. She’ll be here somewhere, though. The enormous chandeliers hanging between the staircases from the tall ceiling are different, I notice. No longer the dripping crystal that’s hung almost to the floor since I was a child, but long shards of twisting blue and black glass, which I have to admit compliments the rest of the house’s décor beautifully.
“Take a breath, ladies,” I say, extracting myself from Mary’s iron grip as we reach the top of the stairs. “Two hours is plenty of time. I’m not that much of a mess.”
My nonchalance is met with exasperated responses in three languages, and I roll my eyes again, allowing myself to be hauled into my bedroom and promptly stripped of the dove gray Alo Yoga cashmere set I’m wearing. I learned a long time ago it’s easier to just let them do what they want and, seeing as all three of them have either bathed me or changed my diapers at some point in my life, I don’t bat an eyelid as they all but throw me in the warm, lavender scented bath already waiting for me.
There’s a long list of reasons I wanted to go to college at Franklin West. The top three being: it’s as far away from my family as I can get without leaving the country, my dad is on the board, so my place was a given, and it’s filled with the offspring of the country’s elite.
It took me a while to realize that my family was different growing up—that the reporters hanging around the gated entrance to our estate and harassing my parents as we ate at exclusive Michelin Star restaurants wasn’t normal.
I knew we were richer than most, of course. I just didn’t know why. That, I discovered as a sophomore in high school, when Sebastian Cowling marched up to me in the cafeteria and threw a blueberry smoothie in my face. I’d been too shocked to respond. I may have been one of the most popular girls in school, but I was liked. Not only on the cheer squad, but on the debate team and an active member of the NHS, too. He’d yelled about how my family had ruined his life, and I’d just gaped at him in confusion.
Primus et Optimus Export Trading Company, or PEO, had always sounded boring to me, but that year, I realized that my father was one of the most influential and wealthy businessmen in North America. When I’d confronted my parents in tears after school, I’d discovered that the Cowling’s company had been doing business with my father, but had been caught in an embezzlement scandal, so PEO had cut ties.
It was then, I started to dig. My ignorance to my own family history had astounded me. My father, Mason Smith, is a big deal. Like, a huge deal. His family can be traced back to the original families to make it big in America, his money coming from hundreds of years of tobacco and cotton exports before branching out after the 1800s.
Sebastian Cowling didn’t come back to school after that day.
“?Cómo te sientes?” Rosalita whispers in my ear as they scrub me within an inch of my life, preparing me for the hair and makeup crew I can already hear setting up in the dressing room.
“Nervous,” I admit, before I can think better of it. It’s the truth, though. “Where’s Mother?”
“Terrorizing Francesca in the kitchen is my guess,” Lotta grunts, holding up a large fluffy towel for me as I step out of the bath.
I smile, knowing she’s probably right. It’s not that I’m not close to my parents, it’s just that . . . Okay, I’m not close to my parents. I’m almost one hundred percent certain they only had me to continue the family line. Dad’s always been busy with work, barely in the same city, let alone country, and Mom is always busy with her various charities and events. Her own family is oil-rich from Texas, their marriage seemingly more strategic than romantic.
“Is Dad here?” I ask, realizing I might see him for the first time in months.
“Yes, Miss ,” Mary says, shooing me onto the stool at my sprawling vanity. “He flew in from Hong Kong yesterday.”
Huh. I hadn’t even known he was out of the country.
I don’t recognize the man and woman lunging at me with brushes and powders as I stare blankly at my reflection, but then, it’s been a while since I’ve been subjected to this ridiculousness, so they might be new.
Behind me, I spot Lotta unzipping a garment case and I must admit, the dress my mother has chosen for me is stunning.
“It’s bespoke Alberta Ferretti,” Lotta says, catching my interested gaze in the mirror.
My eyebrows shoot up, causing the man currently painting my face to mutter under his breath.
It’s gorgeous. Consisting of floor-length swathes of midnight blue silk and black lace, with a boned bustier, it’s simple yet elegant. Almost something I would have chosen myself.
Unlike everything else in my life.
My fingers itch to reach for my purse to see if Longstead’s secretary has sent through the email yet. If I’m supposed to start tomorrow, I’ll scream. He’s already made it clear he doesn’t think I’m cut out for the internship, and if I have to call to say I can’t make the first day because I’m across the country, it’s only going to make him think he’s right.
At the thought of my phone, my mind strays to Zak. I’d wondered if he’d message again after leaving the ball in my court. I can’t decide whether his lack of forcefulness is intriguing or annoying. It’s selfish of me to want him to chase me. I don’t want to lead him on. It’s the reason I’ve never let things progress past mild flirting. The kiss we shared in freshman year made it clear that Zak Aldridge is not someone I could just fuck out of my system. It would never be ‘just’ a one-night stand.
I get lost in my thoughts as people clean up around me and I’m fastened into my dress. It’s only when Lotta coughs, that I blink and realize I’m standing in front of the mirror looking like a completely different person than I was when I arrived.
My hair has been styled into a chic chignon, my makeup flawless. I must ask them which lipstick they used because the matt plum compliments the golden tones of my brown skin perfectly. Of course, the dress fits like a dream. It was a risk ordering bespoke when I haven’t seen them for so long, my mother assuming I hadn’t put on weight since the last time I visited. Luckily for all of us, her gamble paid off.
I give a little twirl, momentarily forgetting the shit show that tonight will bring, and enjoying the feeling of being a princess for a heartbeat.
“You look stunning,” Lotta says, her gray eyes a little glassy.
Beside her, Rosalita, and Mary agree, both gazing up at me like petite fairy godmothers. All too soon, their adoring expressions turn to concern, and they step away in a silent signal that there’s nothing left to do but go downstairs.
My heart slams against my ribs as Rosalita and Lotta pull open the double doors and I step back out into the hallway, my blue velvet Manolo Blahnik pumps sinking into the plush carpet. Voices are already rising from downstairs, the familiar deep baritone of my father’s voice mixed with unfamiliar laughter. My pulse kicks up a notch.
It's been so long since I saw my parents, and even though I knew entertaining their guests would take precedence, it still stings a little that they couldn’t spare me five minutes to come and say hello.
Gripping the front of my dress in my fingers, I descend the staircase with the same dread I’m sure I’d feel if I were on my way to be sentenced for murder. The people waiting for me in our sixteen-seater dining room are simultaneously my future and the end of everything.
The voices get louder as a door opens and I blink in surprise to find my father striding to the bottom of the stairs to greet me. Someone must have informed him that I was on my way down.
His smile is warm as he watches me take the final steps, his arms outstretched. The black tailored suit he’s wearing enhances his powerful frame, and I notice that his light brown beard and coiffed hair are speckled with gray. I can’t remember if they were the last time I saw him. His skin is tanned, a little pink on the nose, which tells me he’s been out on the water. Despite both me and Mom lecturing him on the dangers of skin cancer, he’s always been awful at remembering to wear protection.
“You look stunning, darling,” he says, pulling me to him and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen much of you lately. I feel like all I’ve done is blink, and you’ve turned from a teenager to a young woman.”
I give him a small smile. “How was Hong Kong?”
“Sticky.” He grimaces. “Much the same as here.”
He links his arm with mine and steers me toward the dining room and it’s hard to breathe. Panic rips through me and all I can think about is pulling from his grasp and running. Running through the doors and down the paved path and never stopping. I’d leave it all behind to escape this. I’d give up everything. I can’t do this.
By the time we reach the door, I can hardly breathe. Whether my dad notices, I have no idea. Either way, he doesn’t slow, gently continuing to pull me forward.
A member of the hired waiting staff opens the door as we approach, and an almost inaudible whimper escapes my throat as everyone in the room stops talking and turns to us.
“!” Mrs. Chevalier steps forward, her white-blonde hair bouncing and her Botox-laced face stretching into what I think is a warm smile as her British accent echoes against the walls. “It’s been an age, darling. Just look at you. You’re simply stunning.”
“Agreed,” her husband says, looking me up and down in the same way I’ve seen my father appraise a racehorse. “ Vous êtes une vision.”
I try for as long as possible not to look at the third person, standing beside them.
“,” my father prompts, squeezing my hand where it clutches his arm in a death grip. “Say hello to your fiancé.”