novelxo Prince Of Greed: Chapter 2
My father’s new wife’s name popped up on my phone screen. She’d been texting me all day about a fundraiser she was heading. This call was to remind me of the time I was supposed to be there, but each message was heavily laced with guilt and obligation. He needed an appearance from the lone survivor of the heartbreaking boating accident that took my mother, older brother, and younger sister thirteen years ago.
If it hadn’t been for the inner tube I’d been in when the speedboat hit the rocks, I wouldn’t have had to dress up like a living memorial for fundraising events.
The coast guard had responded within minutes and hoisted me from the water, but often I wished they hadn’t. Some nights, I could still hear my mother screaming out my brother’s name. His body was lost to the ocean and never recovered.
Every benefit or fundraiser was another opportunity for my father to rehash the tragedy and reassure his constituents that he was still a family man. Though, the trail of ex-wives he was leaving up and down the Californian coast was more toxic than the plastic floating just off the state’s shores. I ran away to London for university after private prep school, but I hadn’t been able to get a foothold in the marketing industry after graduation. Without Daddy’s money, I was forced to move back to Los Angeles.
The reemergence of his one and only living child had stirred his campaign advisors to thrust me into the spotlight as often as possible. I agreed on the condition that he paid for my apartment and car. Los Angeles was expensive. I was working full-time at one of the top ad agencies and still barely making ends meet. If I was going to be paraded like a show pony, I wanted the prize money for it.
The event Rebecca was blowing up my phone over was Friday night. It was five days away, but every minute counted when you were the wife of a future presidential candidate.
I hadn’t seen the dresses she had picked for me, but I had no doubt they all were meant to age me down by about seven years. My father was getting older but wanted to keep his voters under the illusion that he was a spry man with progressive ideals.
That meant that I couldn’t look my age.
When approached by other politicians I had known most of my life, I was always offered the same dusty compliments: “You have grown into such a beautiful woman,” or, “Your mother would be so proud to see you now,” or my favorite, “I can see you got your father’s wits but your mother’s beauty.”
Constant reminders that I was merely a relic from a time when my father had been young, happy, and had it all. He’d enjoyed the attention of being a single father and widower until I turned sixteen. That was when A-line sundresses, kitten heels, and decorative hair clips became my permitted party attire.
I didn’t want to deal with the schedule Rebecca had come up with or the expectations she was passing from my father down to me. I didn’t have anything against her. As far as stepmothers went, she was the most tolerable. But she was only eight years older than me—another reason I had to appear younger than I actually was. Daddy couldn’t have the media connecting the dots that his wives were getting younger when he wasn’t.
I ignored Rebecca’s call and went back to mindlessly scrolling social media while the TV lit up my bare living room. Posts from a group of my old friends at a nightclub downtown showed up, and the caption from one of the girls snagged my attention.
Living life as high as I can.
Rhomi Polus was front and center, her phone held out to capture the chaos behind her. Several other people were in the blur of bodies and colored dance floor lights. She would consider herself an influencer, but she was just as much of a trust fund kid as I was. Her father and mine had put on several fundraisers together, but her lawyer father never bothered with politics because money got him much farther than a voting ballot ever did.
The club tagged in the image was only a couple miles from my apartment, and for a moment, I thought about getting off my couch and finding a dress to throw on. But sitting at home was far more comfortable than crashing a night out with near strangers.
I hadn’t seen Rhomi in ages, but we kept up through random messages and commenting on photos or status updates.
A pang of feeling left out hit me.
I’d left more than just friends in London. I’d left Muhammad, or Mads, as he preferred.
We hadn’t been dating for long when I decided to return to the States. It had only been a few months, but he was already focused on a new job that had a promising future. One that wasn’t centered around his personal life or me.
I opened up the text thread that he and I had sparsely used since I left. The last message from him was dated last week. “I miss you.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I missed his smile. I missed the way he made me laugh. I missed the way he made me feel. But I couldn’t admit that I missed him. Not after the fight we’d had that solidified my choice to leave.
So instead, I scrolled up to a photo he’d sent me last month. It was finally warm in London and he had been at coffee with a few of our friends. The photo of the four of them holding up their takeaway cups came after a selfie of him enjoying the sunshine. The warm glow of his skin and the dark curls over his brow sent me retreating into myself.
I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders a little tighter, pretending that I wasn’t utterly alone. Pretending that I could be out if I wanted. That I could be at a nightclub flirting with all manner of men in this city.
But the shallow lie proved nothing except that I wasn’t.
Rebecca sent through another text, and not a moment later, she called.
I finally answered.
Maybe it was to stop her incessant calls, or maybe to allow a voice other than mine into the room for a brief moment.
“What’s up, Becky?” I greeted her with a name I knew she hated.
She sighed but pushed on. “Your father wants you to come to lunch tomorrow to go over the agenda. Are you free around one?”
“I have to work,” I reminded her.
“You still need to eat. Come up to the house. I’m making egg salad.”
I cringed. I was sure it was by my father’s request that she was making one of the foulest foods I could think of.
“Fine. I’ll be there.” I didn’t wait for her to respond before I hung up.
Impulse rushed through me, and I shot off two texts.
The first was to my father.
ME:
Next time you want me to come over, invite me yourself.
Typing bubbles popped up on his end, but I swiped out of that conversation and into my social media feed.
I clicked on Rhomi’s photo and typed a message.
ME:
Hey, girl! Want to grab coffee tomorrow?
I took a deep breath and set the phone down on my thigh. I didn’t expect her to respond right away, but I fully expected my father’s response to be immediate, condescending, and cold. But the ping that followed wasn’t from my texts. It was from Rhomi.
RHOMI:
Yes, babe!!! I’d love that! Alfreds in Westwood Village around 10 a.m.?
ME:
See you then!
RHOMI:
Favolosa!
I smiled to myself and ignored the text that followed from my father. Coffee with another human being in a city I should love would satisfy the isolation for a while.
I turned off the TV and made my way back to my bedroom through the kitchen when something out of the corner of my eye sent ice down my back.
My heart leaped into my throat.
The kitchen was empty, but I could have sworn I saw the shadow of a man leaning against the sink.
I ran to my bedroom and locked the door behind me.
It was nothing.
I was on the top floor of a luxury apartment building. No one could have gotten in without me knowing. I took a deep breath and sat on the edge of my bed. My ears were pricked for any sound coming from behind the door, but the apartment was silent.
I was alone.