Chapter 1
AMELIE
PLAYLIST: GOOD GIRLS (ACOUSTIC) – JOSIE EDWARDS
Manhattan, New York
Today
The ballpoint in my pen scratches over the journal page, repeatedly carving the same six letters I have written countless times before.
WHO AM I?
Truth is, I don’t know who I am, because I had to become a role, a pretend friend, a someone for everyone from the moment I turned twelve. And now? Fourteen years later, I am a mess. A mess who has no idea who she is, what she wants, or what to do with her life.
The job is done, and I am left with a void.
I partially blame my father for it, because he was the one who dragged me into this life.
But then, I can’t complain about the fact that the job made me a millionaire before I even turned eighteen, and I am free to do whatever I want now.
Except for knowing that I am searched for. Well, not me, but the role I had.
It should bring me peace, knowing that I changed my appearance enough to be unrecognizable, yet…I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, of always needing to be hypervigilant.
Hypervigilance. The motto of my life.
‘Always be prepared. Always be on the lookout.’ That’s what my father taught me before I could even write.
Me…no. The girl whose name feels like a stranger to me, after all those years of being forced into living a role. To pretend to be someone, because my father decided.
I have lost track of the child I once was, and my plan is to start fresh here. To do whatever I want to do, and find out who Amelie Degard really is. No commitments, no more lies, no more pretending. No more my father ruling anything. No more job. Just unapologetically me.
With that, I get up to leave, because it’s the first day of my new life.
My life.
I walk past the meticulously maintained grass of Butler Lawn in the heart of the Columbia Campus. I check out the other students, and I instantly question my decision to study again. I have forgotten how annoying eighteen-year-olds can be.
Many of them are dancing while we are forced to walk like ants towards a stage with rows of chairs in front, holding some stupid flags, and wearing even more stupid baby-blue t-shirts. I only put it on so as not to draw attention to myself.
The others’ over-enthusiasm makes me sick. It might be an American thing, but my rather dry half-French, half-British existence can’t deal with it. It also can’t deal with the heat. I have heard about New York City being hot in late summer, but holy shit, I didn’t think it would be that hot.
I blow my cheeks with a raised eyebrow towards the black-haired boy in front of me, who won’t shut up about how exciting everything is and that this is the proudest moment of his life.
You haven’t even started your life, idiot, I tell him in my mind. Suddenly, he jumps up and down as we pass the parents’ section, and I roll my eyes.
When we reach the area with chairs for the new Columbians, I make sure to sit as far away as possible.
I should have decided on a graduate degree, I think to myself. But I made myself several years younger on my new papers on purpose. So, undergrad hell it is.
I scan the rows and see a blonde, long-haired, young woman in an expensive-looking, floral-printed mini dress, scrolling on her phone.
She’s not wearing the blue t-shirt, and I immediately like her.
From her body language, she definitely seems to feel everything of this is below her—exactly the type of person I like to be around right now.
I make my way to the free spot next to her.
Apparently, no one wants to sit next to her.
When I reach her, it is clear she comes from money.
Her watch is a rose-gold Patek Philippe Nautilus 7118.
I know because I researched watches and appearances before arriving here, but I ended up choosing a Cartier.
I might have money, but I won’t pay 200k for a damn watch.
I also didn’t want to give an image of being completely over it.
Her entire appearance shows her background.
And I have to say, with her long legs, the attitude, I’d be the last person not to look.
I am a girls girl, have been, will forever be.
And I am finally allowed to live it. My role in the past has kept me from exploring my real sexuality by contract. Now, I have a world to catch up with.
I place myself next to her, without giving her another glance, and slouch in the chair.
“What a stupid shit show,” I mumble out and watch her body language from the corner of my eyes.
She stops scrolling. I feel her eyes on me; she might be checking if I am worth her attention.
“You’re telling me. Fucking minions,” she says, as I must have passed her first assessment.
I have decided to wear something that is both a quiet luxury and normal.
Worth the Ivy League institution, yet not drawing too much attention.
Because I’m good at what I do. Pretending to be someone. Someone I have no clue about.
I look at her.
She has mesmerizing blue eyes, and with her blonde hair and pink lips, I have to keep myself from staring at her.
Keep yourself together, I tell myself.
So, I do.
“Yeah, literally,” I say and point at a bunch of people in yellow shirts. “Look at them,” I add in a derogatory scoff.
She laughs.
“What’s your major?” she asks in a tone that reflects her appearance: distant and above things.
“Neuroscience and Behavior,” I say. “You?”
“Economics, my father thinks I will take over his businesses one day, stupid fucker. As if I’ll ever work.”
“You’re telling me,” I say out of no reason at all. But it somehow seems the right choice to appear likable to her.
Idiot, I tell myself. You want to find yourself and start with a fucking lie.
“What did you want to study?” I ask.
“Wanted to become a surgeon,” she says, and adds with a sardonic tone, “Cardio. But my father thinks I am not bright enough for that.”
“Telling you, fathers are the worst,” I say. “They should take their fuckton of opinions, and fuck off.”
I mean, I get her. My father decided my path for me, too. I was never asked if I wanted to or not. I had to, end of story. Leaving my life in a complete mess.
“Yeah,” she says and scuffs.
“Amelie,” I say, holding out a hand. “Amelie Degard.”
“El,” she says, and takes it. “At least you can call me that. To the others, it’s Elise Victoria Whitney-Morgan.”
What a name, I think to myself. It shouts money from far away.
Whitney-Morgan is a name almost everyone on this planet must have heard of.
They’re an old-money family, best known for the bank and equity firm Whitney-Morgan, which has cast its net over the entire planet, into almost every government and many, many businesses.
No wonder she feels beyond any of this here, who wouldn’t if your father’s business is so influential and well-known?
I don’t care about it, so I don’t show any recognition.
“Is he here?” I ask her.
“My father?” she asks.
“Yeah, who else?”
She laughs. “Of course not, much too busy. I think he sent his assistant to move my stuff here.”
“You’re staying on campus?” I ask incredulously. Not because I judge it, but because I expected her, of all people, to have other accommodations—like me. I’ll never sleep in a dorm ever again.
“Yeah,” she scoffs out and purses her lips. “He thinks it is a necessary character-building experience.”
“I could never,” I say.
“No father telling you what to do?”
“Not anymore. Died. Luckily,” I say. My father did, of course, not die, but it’s the cover story for me having a shit ton of money at the age of nineteen.
That’s how old I am officially. In reality, I am twenty-five, my father lives somewhere in the Bahamas now and the job I did by being a friend and protection to a very important girl made me a multi-millionaire.
But no one here knows who I really am, and no one ever can.
“So you’re not staying on campus?”
“Nah, could never. Bought a studio in Tribeca. Let’s have some drinks there later and escape these minions.”
“Bet,” she says and grins. “I have zero interest in community building anyway. Look at them talk as if this is the most precious moment ever, it’s just framed crap to make you believe you belong, so they get more money.”
A smirk spreads over my face because sitting next to El was the best decision I could have made.
It even makes me ignore the slick guy with his brushed back, wavy blonde hair and strangely empty, yet intense eyes, sitting next to me.
His perfume rolls over me like a tsunami, and I’d really like to vomit from it.
I give him only a quick glance, but something about him gives me the ick.
Maybe because he’s a man, I think to myself.
El and I endure the Convocation for over an hour before we are sent to different orientation groups.
“Here,” says El and holds her phone against mine. “My contact. Please save me from this later.”
“Deffo,” I say and laugh. “You better bring some booze.”
“Bet,” she says.
“Who’s that guy?” I ask El, six hours later, when we meet to escape the campus activities, and she comes with a very efficient-looking man in functional wear and a rather tight t-shirt, following her.
“Bodyguard,” she says casually. “He’ll do the driving and will most certainly wait outside.”
“I thought your dad said he wanted you to have a …what was it? A ‘necessary character-building experience’, yes?”
“Yes, but hypocrisy is his favorite mood,” she says dryly. “Anyway, let’s get wasted,” she says cheerfully and pulls out a black Amex to give it to the bodyguard.
“Get us some Dom Pérignon, the P2, not that shit you bought last time. Two at least. And some snacks,” she says to the bodyguard, who doesn’t show a single emotion.
“You want anything specific?” she asks.
“Nah,” I say. I have no clue what I’d want and what she understands by “snacks”—probably not what I mean. For the time being, I try to blend in.