The Heiress

by Cassia Leo

  Too Perfect

  After our run-in with Sabrina, we decided to forgo another dip in the pool so we could get showered and grab some dinner. Daniel led me upstairs to a guest bedroom with a luxurious en suite bathroom. I didn’t bother asking why we weren’t sleeping in the master bedroom. If this was a family vacation home, I assumed the master bedroom was probably used by one of his siblings.

  I still had questions about why Daniel didn’t have a vacation home of his own if he was indeed a successful investor. But I’d always heard that wealthy people were wealthy partly because they earned a lot of money, and equally because they were frugal with the money they earned. Not to mention the fact that Daniel had told me he was only twenty-seven years old. And, as far as I knew, he was unmarried. He probably didn’t want to set down roots until he was married or had children of his own.

  The rich tumbled stone covering the shower walls and the heavy glass doors were spotless. I felt a little guilty as I remembered the spot of mold I’d seen on the corner of the pink shower curtain at home, which I hadn’t cleaned in a few weeks. Daniel did mention that the housekeeping staff had been given the weekend off, but I still wondered how much work they had to do during the summer when the family wasn’t around. One thing was certain, I didn’t understand the lifestyles of the rich and fabulous, but I also did not begrudge their hospitality.

  As I showered, I reveled in the creamy feeling of his fancy body wash, my hand lingering between my legs, recalling the bliss of Daniel’s mouth on me. It took a ridiculous amount of self-control not to walk dripping wet out of the bathroom to find him. Instead, I took my time using the expensive shampoo and conditioner, leaning my head back and inhaling deeply as the lather ran down in luxurious ribbons over my skin.

  After my shower, I grabbed a clean, folded bathrobe off one of the shelves in a large linen closet. I towel-dried my hair and cursed myself for forgetting my blow-dryer at home. Then, I realized that Daniel surely had a blow-dryer in here somewhere. I pulled open the top drawer of the double vanity and found an assortment of travel-sized toiletries. Opening the next drawer down, I found a very expensive-looking silver blow-dryer and a pink flatiron. Either this room was solely used for guests, or Daniel liked the color pink. Nothing wrong with that.

  Using my round brush and Daniel’s hair dryer, I was able to dry my hair in less than five minutes, and it had never looked so full and shiny. I noted the brand of the blow-dryer in the event I should ever hit the lottery. Stuffing my belongings into my backpack, I dressed in a beige crepe button-up top tucked into a flouncy nude miniskirt I’d laid out on the edge of the bathtub. The steam from the shower hadn’t completely loosened the wrinkles, but I highly doubted anyone would notice in the fading sunlight.

  I pulled on my strappy black heels and stepped out of the guest bathroom, where I found Daniel lying on the bed, playing on his phone, and dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a dark-blue polo. He lowered his phone onto his chest so he could look at me, a smile spreading across his face. The first thought that crossed my mind—aside from the fact that his smile never failed to make my insides stir—was that I was overdressed.

  “People are going to wonder how I snagged such a looker,” Daniel said, getting up and making his way toward me.

  “A looker? Next, you’ll start calling me your favorite dame.”

  He smiled as he slid his finger underneath the collar of my shirt. “You’re definitely in my top five dames.” He laughed at my wide-eyed expression. “Okay, okay, you’re in my top two.” He laughed even harder and held up his hands to fend off any retaliation. “You have to understand! I’m really digging Leslie right now. Without her, you wouldn’t be here.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes so bad, but I couldn’t.

  He walked around me until he was standing at my back. “My favorite dame is looking very smart this evening,” he said, his hand softly clasping my arms as he traced his lips over the back of my ear. “What do you say we blow this joint?”

  The throbbing sensation between my legs told me to throw him on the bed and straddle him, but my brain told me I needed to wait, at least until after dinner.

  Oh, God. Why did I lose all reason around this man?

  Rather than take advantage of the valet parking, Daniel parked his Range Rover on Main Street near the Hedges Inn. We would walk the few blocks to 1770 House. He claimed he wanted to feel the balmy summer breeze on his skin, but I had a strange feeling he was trying to draw out the evening. Maybe he was also nervous about what would happen when we arrived back at the beach house later tonight.

  Yeah, right. Daniel did not seem to have a nervous bone in his entire rock-hard body.

  The houses on Main Street looked like houses you’d find in a Rockwell painting. Typical white clapboard, two-story houses with black shutters, bright-green perfectly manicured hedges and lawns on large one- to two-acre plots. It was almost too perfect.

  I’d only been in the Hamptons a few hours and I already missed the jumbo fried shrimp at City Island and the kids in Little Ireland who sold lemonade on the streets. It was August and I couldn’t wait for a golden autumn in Van Cortlandt Park or opening day at Yankee Stadium. Sure, the apartment I shared with my mom was shitty, as was the management of said apartment, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love the Bronx.

  “I’ll have to show you around my neighborhood when we get back,” I said as we passed yet another perfect house. “I can introduce you to Enrique, the king of dad jokes who owns the bodega across from Tino’s Bar.”

  He looked down at me and flashed me an amused smile. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  He was humoring me. He had no interest in meeting Enrique.

  “I’d rather take you and your mom to get a slice,” he said, probably trying to recover from his lackluster response. “Your mom seems like a very interesting lady.”

  We stopped at the corner of Main and Buell to wait for the traffic to pass. “Are you trying to get on my good side? Because I can assure you that it’s not necessary. I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of having a bad side right now.”

  “Sounds like you’re in a good mood,” he said, letting go of my hand to slide his vibrating phone out of his pocket. “That doesn’t have anything to do with our little dip in the pool, does it?”

  The last car passed us and I stepped out into the crosswalk. “You’re very proud—”

  “Kristin!”

  The black car rounding the corner came out of nowhere.

  Two years earlier

  * * *

  The darkness was my only friend tonight.

  This thought occurred to me as I opened my eyes. My mouth was filled with the warm, metallic gush of fresh blood, and my head throbbed with a deep, persistent ache. A sharp pain in my neck made me cry out as I turned my head to the right. Petra was slumped over and unconscious in the passenger seat.

  Did I just kill my best friend?

  There was no time to find out. I had to call 9-1-1.

  But if I called for an ambulance, they’d surely send a police car, as well. They’d find out what I’d done. What we’d done.

  In the movies, there were often headlights flashing after a car accident, but there was no light in this dark embankment. Had I even bothered to turn on my headlights when I got in the car? I couldn’t remember. I could hardly remember getting in the driver’s seat.

  I had to get out of there.

  No! I had to call an ambulance. I couldn’t leave my friend alone, bleeding and unconscious. But how was I going to explain the accident without getting myself arrested when I couldn’t even remember what happened?

  I would use Petra’s phone to dial 9-1-1, then I’d tell the dispatcher where we were.

  Where are we?

  Oh, God. What have I done?

  This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was the kind of bad that ruined lives.

  I had to get out of there.

  My vision flickered. The broken glass and deflated airbag in my lap tr
ansformed into a rainbow of swirling colors. Even in my current state of mind, I knew the problems with my vision meant I had probably suffered a head injury. I thought of the time Petra and I swung as high as we could and jumped off our swings only to land so hard we cracked our heads together and both ended up with concussions. That was only eight years ago, but it already felt like someone else’s life.

  My hands slashed at the darkness, finding Petra’s lifeless body. I felt warm breath on my hand and my body flooded with relief. Sliding my hand into a coat pocket, my fingertips collided with hard plastic. I pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  Hardly able to hear my slurred voice over my booming heartbeat, I attempted to ask for help. The dispatcher wanted to know where we were. I didn’t know. It was too dark. She wanted to know who I was. I easily ignored the question. She begged me to stay on the phone, but my consciousness ebbed. The car was a ship, rolling and pitching as I fought to stay afloat. A bitter cocktail of vodka and half-digested orange pill spewed from my mouth onto the center console. I dropped the phone in Petra’s lap, leaving the line to the dispatcher open.

  After a bit of clumsy fumbling, I found the handle for the driver’s side door and heaved it open, tumbling out onto tall, spiny grass. I didn’t know where I was or where I would go, but I knew to be grateful for the darkness. It was my only friend tonight. It would shield me from the emergency personnel that would soon arrive.

  There would be no hiding from the guilt.

  Present day

  * * *

  I was frozen on the spot, a lifeless sculpture, awaiting my turbulent fate. I closed my eyes just as a sudden and violent force slammed into my chest. I flew backward, a bolt of sheer panic lighting up every nerve ending in my body. Unable to make sense of whether or not I’d been hit by the car, I opened my eyes again. Immediately, I landed on my back with a hard bounce, letting out an involuntary grunt as the wind was knocked out of my lungs.

  Daniel was on top of me. My fingers searched for the ground, expecting to feel hard asphalt, instead finding warm grass.

  Daniel grabbed my face and looked me in the eye, his voice distant as the sound of my panicked heartbeat thrummed in my ears. He looked down at my body, searching for injuries, then he stared me in the eye again. This time I heard him loud and clear.

  “Kristin, are you in pain? Can you move your hands and feet, baby?”

  A crowd was gathering. An old woman standing behind Daniel looked concerned, and the man next to her was on his cell phone describing something: Main and Buell… Black. Yes, a black Mercedes… I only saw the first two letters… I think… Yes, definitely New York plates… C-F. Or C-E… I really can’t say. Probably CF… Yeah, he’s long gone.

  “Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me. Are you in pain?”

  I shook my head as I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “No, no pain. Did he hit me?”

  “Are you sure you’re not in pain?” Daniel asked. “I tackled you pretty hard.”

  I reached up and scratched my chest. “Just a little out of breath, but I’m fine. Can you help me up?”

  Daniel wrapped an arm around my back and helped me to my feet. “He didn’t hit you,” he said, looking me over from head to toe. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  I nodded slowly as I recalled one of the first questions he asked me. Can you move your hands and feet?

  The night of the accident was fresh in my mind now. The blinding force, the sheer panic, the way the airbag knocked the air from my lungs, the relief that I was alive. The thousand times I called Petra in the hospital and at the rehab center and at her house. How I couldn’t blame her for ignoring me, but how that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  Panic rose in my chest and tears filled my eyes as I realized I’d once again narrowly escaped death. But, why? What did I have left to give this world? Why wasn’t I the one sitting in a wheelchair?

  I sank down onto the curb and covered my face. “I want to go home,” I whispered, as Daniel sat next to me.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and placed a soft kiss on the top of my head as he pulled me into him. “Of course. Anything you want.”

  The walk back to Daniel’s SUV, and the subsequent ride back to the beach house, were filled with a thick, awkward silence. A heavy fog of my memories hung between us. I kept my face averted, pretending to take in the scenery as I wiped away at a steady stream of tears, which never seemed to end. I didn’t know what was worse, my brush with death or the embarrassment from the ensuing meltdown.

  “I think you’d tell me if you were hurt.” Daniel finally broke the silence as we turned into his driveway. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not hurt,” I replied, unable to disguise the thick emotion strangling my voice. “I’m…” I watched as the giant beach house came into view and thought of how different I’d felt when I first saw it just a few hours ago. Then, I let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I am,” I said, my shaky voice sounding utterly defeated. “A monster, probably.”

  He stopped the car and killed the engine. “Why would you say that? What happened back there?” He was silent for a moment. “Talk to me, Kris.”

  Something about the way he called me Kris, just the way Petra used to, made me feel exposed. I pulled my feet up onto the seat and hugged my knees to my chest. “Trust me. You don’t want to know the things I’ve done.”

  More silence. So much fucking silence.

  “Hey, I don’t know about you,” he began, “but I’m fucking starving. How about we go inside and order a pizza?”

  The uncertainty in his voice broke my heart. He was trying. He really was. But he didn’t know if my mysterious baggage was something he was equipped to deal with. Or maybe he was wondering if I was even worth the effort. At least, he was trying.

  I nodded as I unclipped my seat belt. “Okay.”

  Maybe it was finally time to come clean.

  I was glad that Daniel led me into the library instead of the living room, where the walls were covered in beautiful art pieces that reminded me of the future I’d given up. My limbs slack, my expression zombie-like, I propelled myself toward a leather sofa in the middle of the library. Taking a seat on the edge of the cushion, I slid my hands beneath my thighs, so I wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with them.

  Daniel stood a few feet away, tapping his phone screen, probably ordering food. Though I had no interest in eating, Daniel was a strong guy who probably was not accustomed to skipping meals. He was so strong, in fact, he’d managed to save my life at least once, possibly twice, in less than two weeks. Maybe I did need a bodyguard—to protect me from myself.

  I stared at a skull-sized silver world globe, which sat in the center of the mahogany coffee table in front of me. Why would Daniel, or his siblings, decorate this room so formally? If this were my house, I wouldn’t weigh it down with dark, heavy wood furniture and leather. I would paint the bookshelves white, then I’d flood the room with light and organize the thousands of books on the shelves by the color of their spines.

  Daniel turned off his phone and took a seat next to me. “You know what I do when I need to start working on a huge project, but I don’t know where to start?” He didn’t flinch at my lack of response, quickly answering his own question. “I start with the worst part, the part I’m dreading the most. It’s easy after that.”

  His attempt to put me at ease was sweet, admirable, even.

  “You don’t understand,” I replied, still staring at the silver globe. “The whole thing is the worst part. From start to finish, there are no good parts.”

  He was silent for a long time, until I finally turned to look at him. His gaze was intense as he said, “Then, start from the beginning. No matter how bad it gets, I’ll be here until the end. I promise you that.”

  A visceral surge of emotion welled up inside me, stinging my eyes and stealing my breath away. Hiding my face in my hands, I allowed my mind to travel back in time, searching for the b
eginning of the story I needed to tell. The story that had haunted me every day for two years. The story of the night I became unworthy of the beautiful things in life.

  Hurricane

  Two years earlier

  “Do you think they’ll hold the scholarship for you to go back?” Petra asked as she applied her mascara.

  “Why would they?” I replied, digging through my makeup bag for my eyebrow pencil. “They basically gave me the opportunity of a lifetime and I handed it right back to them. It’s NYU. It’s not like they have a refund policy or something.”

  “You should have just asked me. I’d take care of her,” she said, stuffing her mascara back into her makeup bag and grabbing some tissue off the toilet paper roll to blow her nose.

  I wanted to cry. Not because I had to leave NYU to come home and take care of my mom. I wanted to cry because ever since Petra arrived at our apartment an hour ago, she’d blown her nose at least half a dozen times. She claimed to have allergies, but Petra had never had allergies in all the years I’d known her.

  “I’m worried about you,” I said, zipping up my makeup bag as I looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Worried about me? Why? I’m not the one who had to quit school.” She grabbed her bag and pushed past me to get out of the bathroom.

  “Talk to me, Petra,” I said, following her to my bedroom. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She chuckled. “There’s a lot of things I haven’t told you…for your own good.”

  I swallowed an angry reply and took a deep breath to calm myself. “I know I’ve been gone, and I’m probably not the first person you turn to these days. Shit, maybe I’m not even the second or third person. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.” I watched anxiously as she walked slowly along the edge of my worktable, trailing her fingertips over the new sculptures I’d brought back with me from NYU. “Please talk to me.”