by Londyn Quinn
Sigh.
I definitely am.
“Home, sweet home,” Rolland sings out from the front seat as I quietly groan. Pulling up into the grand driveway of our sprawling mansion, Hawthorne Manor, named by my grandfather, is daunting. The pristine ivory walls that are covered in thick, climbing ivy, the front pillars that are three-stories high, the rambling gardens that engulf the front and back lawns of our Ridgeview castle-like estate seem stifling in every way. I wish for the homey feel that other kids’ my age must have when they walk through their front doors — not the sterile, don’t-you-dare-touch anything feel that mine evoked.
I watch as Rolland trots around the car, opening my door. A woman never opens a car door. My mother’s rules whisk through my mind as I exchange a pleasant smile with Rolland. He’s worked for my family for as long as I can remember. His graying, trimmed beard, soft hazel eyes and amiable conversations have become essential to my sanity over the years, and when he became my personal driver and pseudo bodyguard, his presence only grew more comforting to me.
“Chin up, Miss Hawthorne. A lady always looks her best with a smile and good posture,” he teases before escorting me into Hawthorne Manor.
I scamper up the east grand staircase to my wing of the manor where Moira already has a bath drawn for me. Peeling out of my jacket, riding pants and shirt, I discard them into the hamper and let the hours of lessons melt away in the scalding water filled with lilac and eucalyptus essential oils. My expansive, marble-covered en-suite bathroom is engulfed in the soothing aroma that I absolutely love, and I finally start to thaw out from the bitterness of the cold winter day.
“Miss?” Moira’s muffled sing-song voice calls from behind the locked door.
“Yes?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have requested that you join them in their study when you’re finished,” she replied. “I have laid out your clothes on your bed. Do you require anything else?”
“That will be all, Moira. Thank you.”
I release a forced sigh. My parents can wait a few more minutes for me.
Keeping my parents waiting was ill-advised, but they knew I’d just arrived home. Like clockwork every Sunday at seven o’clock p.m, I arrived home and took a restful bath for at least twenty minutes. It was the only way for my muscles to not ache for days on end after my riding lessons. And my mother, of all people, knew my schedule better than even I did.
I soaked in that water until my fingers were about to turn into little prunes before draining the tub, reluctantly leaving the tranquility and warmth for one of our family talks. Somehow I knew that nothing good was about to come my way. My parents were due at another one of their fundraising galas, so I know the conversation, painful as it may be, wouldn’t drag on for too long. My mother should have been getting her hair and makeup done by her personal staff by now. What could be so important that they were willing to put all of that on hold for a nice chat with their only daughter?
And now, only child...
It would be nice to think that they just wanted to inquire about my day.
But I’m neither a stupid girl, nor am I delusional.
Ambling into my bedroom, I picked up the lilac dress that Moira left out for me. I hate dresses, for the most part. I wanted to put sweats and a t-shirt on, but I knew my place. I was a Hawthorne, and that came with strict expectations. Even if I was just going to be lounging in my room for the rest of the night reading, I better be dressed well for the occasion.
There was no use fighting it, so I slipped the silky fabric on, smoothed out my windblown locks, made sure I had a touch of makeup on, and put on a pair of ballet flats. I knew my mother would rather I wore heels all of the time, but my feet were still quite sore from posting on Midnight Jewel for four hours, so flats would have to do.
It takes me about ten minutes to walk from my wing all the way down and around to my parents’ study. It’s more of a two-story library than an actual study, but they can call it whatever fancy term they wanted. I did adore that room, though. It reminded me in so many ways of the library in the movie Beauty and the Beast, filled with so many leather-bound treasures that took me on adventures to every corner of the world.
The elation of walking into the library is quickly stifled by the portrait of my brother Andrew hanging on a wall in the center of the first floor. It served as a shrine to the son they lost and the child that I could never live up to. I only have fond glimmers of memories of him, priceless moments of my incredible big brother. It has been about two years since a horrific car accident took him from us at barely sixteen years old. He was the perfect child my parents had always wanted. He was amazingly athletic, incredibly book smart, insanely witty, and of course, groomed to eventually take over the family business. I know they compare me to him daily. I’m their disappointment. My brother was meant to carry on the family name. The burden now rests on my shoulders. It is a weight that I feel every second of my life. And I hate it.
My brother was so much more than all that to me. He was my protector and my best friend, other than Xander. The one person in my family who didn’t make me feel worthless or like I was a huge disappointment. The sting of his early departure was palpable every day.
“What took you so long, Lottie?” My father grumbles, looking up from the book clutched in his hands. He was sitting on an armchair that resembled a dark leather throne, my mother, to his right, on her favorite oversized cream chaise lounge, flipping through a magazine.
“I had to clean the stench of the barn off of me,” I offer swiftly, standing in the middle of the room on a plush Persian rug that cost more than some college tuitions.
“Darling,” my mother coos. “We have a surprise for you.” Pulling out a brochure that was concealed in the back of her magazine, my mother stands and walks the few steps toward me.
My father pulls off his reading glasses, eyeing me as I take the pamphlet from my mother’s dainty fingers.
“What’s this?” The words barely choke out of my throat as I read the front page:
Westminster School, London, England, seeks curious and engaged students who want to grow and learn in a challenging and supportive environment.
Are my parents really going to ship me off to a boarding school an ocean away from them? Do they really hate me that much?
“You’re leaving for boarding school in the morning. Moira has already started packing your essentials, and we will send the rest of your things to you once you’re settled into your dorm room.” My father’s voice is a little too stern as he rises from his chair. His large hands land on my shoulder as I start to tremble.
“Why?” It was the only word that I could muster as tears started to sting my eyes.
Crossing her arms over her chest, my mother pursed her lips at me. “It is for your own good, sweetheart. We’re just thinking about your future. Think about the amazing education you will be getting. The opportunities to meet others in our same social standing.”
“I don’t want to go to London. It’s the middle of sophomore year! What am I supposed to do? Pick up, leave and start all over in the middle of the school year?” I sink to the floor at their feet, blinking up at my parents. I was about to be shipped off for no reason. Didn’t they love me? Didn’t they want me to stay home with them? Didn’t they care that I had friends and a life here in Ridgeview?
“Charlotte, we’re getting you out of this town before the company you have been keeping becomes an issue. You’re a Hawthorne, and if you stay here in Ridgeview your reputation — our family’s reputation — will be in jeopardy,” my father explained, his voice cold.
“The company I have been keeping?” Right as the question is voiced, I know exactly what company they are referring to — Xander Iazetti. I knew that my father didn’t care for him, the way he glared at my best friend whenever he came over was proof enough. Like he was a rabid rat or some equally disgusting and dangerous creature. Until this moment, I tried to ignore the subtle hints my father would throw ou
t about Xander. The little quips, the rigidness, to menacing glances. His behavior has only gotten worse as the years have gone by. I guess he wasn’t as threatened by Xander when we were in elementary school together. Over the past couple of years, I just chalked it all up to my father being overly protective of his daughter…but this? To send me away because I have a friend who truly cares about me — this was going too far.
“We both know who it is I’m referring to, Charlotte. I have warned you to stay away from that boy, and you have refused to heed my warnings. You can think of this as a punishment, and quite frankly, I don’t care. You’re leaving for London in the morning, and that is final.” Looking up into my father’s narrowing eyes, I knew that protesting wasn’t an option. Maybe I could just run away once I got to the airport. I’d figure out how to live on my own if I had to.
“That is all, Charlotte. We need to get ready for the gala now,” my mother dismissed me as her stare burned into my flesh as I scrambled to my feet.
“Can I see him one more time before I leave?” I cowered at the rage in my father’s eyes.
“Give her one win, Charles.” My mother’s fingers laced with my father’s as his shoulders sank a little, his stormy eyes softening.
“One hour,” he growled before walking with my mother out of the study.
She glanced back at me, showing the slightest hint of sorrow on her otherwise stern face. It tore my heart in two. Did she not have anything to do with the decision? She didn’t really want me to leave, did she? Was the callousness of her words just a cover for her own heartache? Was my mother actually going to miss me?
Charles Hawthorne is the head of our family. No matter how powerful my mother is, he has her beaten, ten-fold.
I already had plans with Xander tonight, anyway. Since my folks were going to be out for most of the evening, I knew that we would be able to hang out without the prying eyes of my parents. If they hate him enough to make me leave the country, they’d be all over us while I try to figure out how to say goodbye to him.
I press my hands to my now-warm cheeks, thinking about his deep brown eyes, so dark, they look like melted chocolate. I think about how he always tugs at his longish hair when he’s frustrated over something, making it look like he’s just rolled out of bed. I’ve always wondered what his hair would feel like between my fingers. And then I think about his lips, the ones that are always quick to flash a mischievous smile at me, like he’s plotting something devious in his mind. I’ve always wondered if they’d taste like the grape Jolly Ranchers he always sucks on.
Ever since my feelings for Xander have grown from just friends to so much more, I’d been fighting against these thoughts, convincing myself that he doesn’t feel the same way, that saying anything to him would ruin our friendship.
That I’d end up losing him forever.
It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
Funny how it feels that I need to take every possible risk with Xander that I can take because the clock is ticking.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to be about goodbyes. It was supposed to be about new beginnings...a new beginning where I finally confess my true feelings for my best friend...to my best friend. I finally feel ready to tell Xander everything, and it might be too late. Fate is an elegant, calloused whore, if you ask me — salting wounds, enjoying the misery that is cloaking me.
Sinking onto my mother’s chaise, I grab the worn paperback of my favorite Jane Austen novel, flipping to my favorite part.
I land on the scene where Darcy finally wins Elizabeth’s heart. Would I ever have a moment like that with Xander? The moment where it all clicks and you’re finally honest about harbored feelings that have built up for so long.
I read the words aloud over and over as tears stream down my cheeks. Usually that scene brings a smile to my face, but that’s not the case right now. I feel overly alone, completely unwanted, and totally defeated.
I should just tell him, right? Tonight.
Our last night.
My throat tightens, and the clicking of my mother’s heels in the grand foyer breaks me away from rereading the same pages that I have devoured countless times.
Tiptoeing into the entryway of my home, I stared at my dressed-to-the-nines mother as my father fastens a diamond-encrusted necklace around her slender neck. They look stunning in their black-tie evening attire. As much as I’d never tell him, I did love how dapper my father looked in his Armani tuxedo.
“Have a good time,” I mumble, announcing my presence.
My father spins on his heels toward me. “Thank you, Lottie. Please know that I do love you and am only trying to protect you.”
“I love you, too.” What else do you say to that? I want to scream at him. Make him understand that he is ruining my life. Convince him that Xander is not who he thinks he is. But it would all fall on deaf ears. Once Charles Hawthorne makes up his mind about something, there is no convincing him otherwise, and I knew better than to even try.
My father puts on his heavy wool dress coat and helps my mother into her floor-length chinchilla, Horror rips through me as the doorbell chimes throughout the house, echoing off the polished stone and crystal adorning everything from the floor to the ceiling. Why couldn’t he have shown up ten minutes later?
Rolland opened the door, revealing Xander standing in the doorway. He’s dwarfed by the elegant entrance, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his loose jeans, his jaw tight. It only relaxes when his eyes meet mine across the foyer.
A tiny pang in my heart reminds me that this will be the last time in a very long time that Xander will be at my front door. A sob rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. My lips curl into a quivering, fleeting smile.
Right as my father clears his throat, Xander’s gaze hardens, his back stiff.
The jaw is tight once again.
The battle of the wills is chilling. They don’t speak, they don’t even break eye contact. Seconds drag as they glare at one another. It is so silent, I want to let out a loud yell just to cut the tension in the room. Xander steps into the house with his head held high and his chest puffed out. My father’s contempt isn’t enough to scare him away, thankfully. Xander never cowers. He’s not weak.
Without a word to either of us, my parents brush past Xander in their rush to make it to the gala. They don’t even bother with a polite good night, even for me, and they certainly don’t seem to care in the least that they’ve just ripped my heart out, stomped on it, and shoved it back into the hollow hole in my chest.
Chapter 3
Xander
I hate Charlotte’s father. Like, really hate him.
He looks at me like I’m no better than a flaming lump of dog shit sitting on his freshly cut lawn.
My family doesn’t have the same blue blood running through their veins as the Hawthornes, but Jesus. It’s not like we’re on the breadline or anything. My dad’s money doesn’t mean anything to Charlotte’s parents. They don’t care what kind of house we live in or what cars my parents drive or that my mother is dripping in designer clothes and diamonds.
To them, our money is tainted.
Ugly.
Dirty.
And they don’t want their precious daughter to have anything to do with the source.
I get it. If I were Charles, I’d feel the same way about me, more so after what I just did to Shorty.
I swallow a groan when I look down at my stained hands.
Idiot. Why didn’t he just give Jase the name?
I give my hair a quick tug as a stress knot lodges itself into the back of my neck. And it doesn’t loosen in the least when Charlotte steps toward me, a small smile on her face.
I inhale her perfume. Mmm. Flowers and fruit. It usually relieves the stress, but tonight it might take more than just a quick whiff.
Charlotte’s long blonde hair falls over her shoulders. My fingers twitch at my sides. That dress...it looks so soft and shiny. I want to reach out and touch her, but I know enough
to keep my distance.
Rolland is close, always watching, and even though he’s a cool dude and doesn’t treat me like I’m some kind of virus, he still works for her uptight, prick of a father. That’s where his loyalty lies.
Her smile makes my breath hitch, just like always, and when her long fingers graze my arm to take my jacket, my heart thumps a little bit faster.
“I’m sorry about that,” she murmurs, hanging up my jacket in the coat closet.
“You’re not gonna let Rolland do that?” I joke with a smirk.
She rolls her eyes and closes the door. “I can do things for myself, you know.”
“Oh, I know. Too bad your parents don’t.” The teasing lingers on my lips as I eye her subtle body movements. She’s completely intoxicating.
Charlotte shrugs, a loud sigh deflating her shoulders. Her smile is long gone. “Sometimes I wish I had parents who actually cared about what I want, more than what they want for me.”
I snicker. “Join the club. We’re accepting new members.”
Her blue eyes are normally bright, her tone always playful and cheerful. But she’s off tonight. I don’t think it’s because of her parents. I mean, they usually treat me like I eat at a soup kitchen, so that’s nothing new.
I see something else behind her eyes. Disappointment, sadness, pain? I squint at her, trying to see beyond the light blue pools, but they’re closed off.
To me and the rest of the world, from the looks of it.
“What’s up, Char? Did something happen at your riding lesson?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. It was fine. Exactly according to my mother’s plan.”
“What plan?”
“The plan for my life, Xan. The plan my parents have for me, the one where they call the shots and make sure I live up to their ridiculous expectations.”