Chapter 1
1
Lorenzo
Mom keeps her hand clamped around my wrist like she thinks I’ll bolt.
To be fair, I might.
The Danforth family estate rises in front of us—if you can even call it an estate. Estates are lawns and fences and maybe a fountain if the owners want to brag. This? This is…obscene. A peninsula jutting into the Long Island Sound, like a giant hand reaching out to strangle the ocean.
The mansion looks less like a house and more like something ripped out of a documentary about robber barons. White stone columns, glass walls that catch the morning sun, balconies stacked like gold. Every inch of it screams money. Old money. The kind that buys influence, hides sins, and buries bodies beneath a philanthropic foundation.
My naive mother beams anyway. I don’t have the heart to tell her there’s probably a room in her new place of employment reserved for sacrificing the poor.
Mom—sweet, sweet Angela, bless her heart—squeezes my wrist as if that might extract enthusiasm from me like juice from a lemon. “Isn’t it beautiful, Enzo p>
“It’s big,” I mutter.
The sigh she gives me, like she gave birth to a disappointment but still loves me enough to endure it, earns her an eye roll.
She swats my hand away when I try to pull her luggage out of the popped trunk of our car. “Be on your best behavior. We need this job. This could pay for p>
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t say college p>
This pipe dream of hers is laughable at best.
Her eyes soften in that way that always makes my chest tighten. “You’re smart enough p>
“People like me don’t end up in colleges.” I tilt my head, pausing to correct, “We clean them. Maybe p>
Not my fault that I spent the past eighteen years as a proud delinquent. Who told the illustrious public school system of Middlesex to make a lazy lifestyle so appealing? Or Kent County. Or Somerset. Or any of the other billion hellholes I’ve hopped in and out of.
Mom swats my arm. “Stop it. You’re going to work hard, keep your head down, and not get into any trouble. You hear me p>
I grunt, which she generously interprets as agreement.
A sleek black golf cart hums toward us. A man in a white uniform hops out, sunglasses cutting half his face.
He doesn’t even glance at me, just nods to my mother. “You must be Mrs. Rossi p>
“Miss,” Mom gently corrects. “Miss Rossi p>
The dude continues without pausing, “The kitchen manager said to bring you straight to staff housing p>
Mom smiles politely. “And my son p>
“Oh. Right. He’ll be in staff housing, too.” The man gestures to me like I’m extra luggage.
Mom nudges me. “Say thank you p>
I don’t. I climb into the back of the golf cart and stare at the mansion as it looms closer, swallowing us whole.
The path curves through gardens that look like they require daily worship. Flowers I can’t name. Bushes trimmed into shapes I didn’t know bushes could be. Marble statues of people who probably never lifted anything heavier than a gold spoon.
The golf cart stops in front of a wing of the estate tucked behind a line of trees. A corridor connects it to the main house, but it’s still far enough away that the staff is out of sight. It’s still nicer than any place I’ve ever lived—clean brick, fresh paint, windows without cracks. Staff housing, I assume.
“Your room is 2B,” the man tells me. “Don’t touch anything outside the servant wing. Don’t wander. Don’t—” He pauses, as if trying to find the right words to avoid calling me what he’s thinking. “Just…keep to your lane p>
I smirk. “I wasn’t planning on graduating to yours p>
He doesn’t laugh. Figures. I have very little faith in the sense of humor of the people who walk these obsessively manicured grounds. “Angela, your room is this one.” He points to the door across the hall from mine.
My mother nods at him, and then the stranger is gone after giving both us our keys. We never even got his name.
My room is small—seven feet by seven feet, with just a dresser and a twin bed that stretches from wall to wall. But that’s not the point. The point is it’s safe.
Which is more than I can say about anywhere we’ve lived in the past thirteen years.
Mom pretends not to notice the way I pause in the doorway or how my chest tightens at the sight of a bed that doesn’t sag, a window without bars, and clean sheets.
“We’ll be fine working here,” she tells herself more than me.
I don’t say anything, just toss my backpack onto the bed and nod in satisfaction when the frame doesn’t collapse into a heap of rotten wood like my last one.
“Go keep yourself busy. I’ll check out my room.” Mom pushes me out the open door. “Maybe go for a walk? Just stay away from the main part of the house unless someone asks for you p>
“Trust me.” I slide my phone into my pocket and back away from our room. “Buttering up to rich people isn’t my hobby p>
To be fair, her warning is warranted. My only concern for as long as I can remember—hell, probably for my whole life—has been making sure Mom and I had enough money to eat.
We’re poor poor. Walk-to-work-in-the-snow poor. No-new-shoes-even-when-my-feet-grow poor. The only three shirts I own were scrounged from the stained discards of our local Salvation Army and bleached to unsightly hues, courtesy of the dish bleach from Mom’s last job as a busser.
“I need this job, Lorenzo p>
Not sure who she’s trying to reassure—her or me.
I edge backward, dragging my feet. “You’ve said that seven times p>
“I mean it. We’re lucky to be here. This job pays well.” Mom sighs, brushing invisible lint off her blouse. She’s always obsessed with keeping up appearances as if cleanliness can hide the stench of poverty on us. “Keep your head down. Be polite. Work hard. No trouble. And for God’s sake, don’t talk back to anyone p>
I hear it then. It’s not the warning or the worry. She’s scared, and it’s more than just about the job and the house. It’s about me.
The possibility that I might fuck up my life beyond repair downright terrifies her. Hence, her banging on my door this morning at the ass crack of dawn and demanding that I pack. Within two hours, out of nowhere, my life was uprooted. All because I got into a bit of trouble.
Or… I guess, a lot of trouble. Depends on who you ask.
“Okay.” My voice dips. “I’ll behave p>
It’s my fault we’re here, after all. I might as well play nice.
Mom shakes her head, smiling the way she does when she worries I’m turning into my father—cold, distant, and mysteriously absent.
I don’t want to be him.
Especially since that’s basically all the info I know about my dad, and I managed to scrounge it all up on my own with some subtle clues.
Ditched his kid for eighteen years? Distant.
Not even a Christmas card? Cold AF.
Not a phone call, either, by the way—absent.
So, no, I don’t want to be like my deadbeat dad.
But I don’t want to be a charity case either.
I escape before Mom can keep lecturing me.
The estate—correction: summer home. Apparently, these are a thing—is quiet in that expensive way. It’s the type of silence that feels purchased. Even the ocean breeze seems trained, brushing the hedges like it’s been ordered not to rustle them too loudly.
I wander along a stone path, hands shoved deep in my pockets. The air smells like salt and lemon trees, a natural scent that could be bottled and sold as perfume, costing more than my mother’s old car.
A gardener kneels near a row of rose bushes, trimming them with surgical precision. When I pass, he nods without looking up. Staff recognize staff. Or at least, they recognize the defeated slouch of someone who can’t afford to quit.
I keep walking until the mansion rises across a long sweep of lawn. It looks different from this angle. More glass, more light, more angles to see everything I’m not supposed to touch.
I should turn around.
I don’t.
Because of her.
The girl standing on the balcony.
She’s leaning forward, elbows propped against the railing, staring out at the ocean, her brows furrowed like she’s trying to memorize the horizon. The wind lifts her hair—light blonde, glossy, long enough to whip across her face. She tucks it behind her ear in a motion so smooth it looks trained.
She wears white.
Not a simple white dress or some casual rich-girl outfit. No, this thing is made of silk that probably costs more than the entire staff earns in a month. It drips off her frame, soft and light, like it was carved out of air.
She looks… untouchable.
And bored.
Painfully, devastatingly bored.
Her eyes flick down. Land on me.
For a second—just one—her expression cracks.
Not disdain. Not superiority.
Curiosity.
The dangerous kind.
I immediately look away.
The last thing I need is to get noticed by someone who can ruin our lives with one complaint.
I head back toward the path.
“Hey p>
Her voice drops from above like a coin tossed into a wishing well.
I freeze.
God-fucking-dammit.
I pause but don’t say anything until she repeats herself in that same detached tone.
Finally, I turn. She’s still on the balcony, leaning over the rail more now, studying me the way kids study animals at the zoo. Except she doesn’t have that smug, tight-lipped smile I usually see on rich people. She looks… fascinated.
And fascinated is worse.
Fascinated pays attention.
She rests her elbow on the railing and her chin on her open palm to better stare at me. “Who are you p>
“Staff p>
“That’s not a name p>
I shrug.
She tilts her head like she’s evaluating artwork. “Are you new p>
“Obviously p>
Not to be egotistical, but most people who see me remember me… even at a glance. It is what it is.
A slow, amused curve forms on her mouth. It seems she’s not used to someone answering her without bending a little.
“What’s your name p>
“Don’t worry about it p>
She laughs softly, but the wind carries the gentle sound to my ears. “Wow. Incredible bedside manner. I’m Victoria p>
Of course she is.
The Danforth heiress herself. The sole one. Seventeen. Rumored to be beautiful, prim, polite, homeschooled, and one stuffy, flawless day away from calcifying into another statue decorating these grounds.
I don’t look at her again. “Good for you p>
She leans even farther over the railing. “You always this friendly p>
“Friendliness isn’t in my job description p>
“What is in your job description p>
“Not talking to you p>
Her smile widens like I’ve just given her a gift.
Rich girls.
They just love to run toward the one person walking away.
Before she can respond, a voice snaps from inside the house. Sharp, irritated, older than the marble columns holding this place up.
“Victoria! Come inside. Now p>
Victoria’s eyes flick toward the open balcony doors, then back to me. Something mischievous sparks there. Something rebellious and reckless.
It strikes me that she’s different than the rumors suggest. So different that I’m shocked that no one has noticed it before.
Victoria ignores the call, still focused on me. “Are you going to be here all summer p>
“No p>
“You sound very sure p>
“I don’t plan on sticking around longer than I have to p>
“A shame.” Her voice drops into something almost… disappointed. “It’s boring here p>
“Sounds like a personal problem p>
She laughs again, and it’s soft but bright. Like the satisfying whoosh that comes from striking a match.
The voice inside grows louder. “Victoria p>
She pushes off the railing. “You should tell me your name p>
“Not happening p>
“Why not p>
“Because you’re trouble p>
Her smile tells me she agrees. “Maybe p>
Without another word, she disappears inside, the silk dress drifting behind her like a wave.
I stand there longer than I should.
Long enough for annoyance to prick at my spine.
She shouldn’t fascinate me.
She’s rich. She’s sheltered. She’s everything I swore I’d never waste time thinking about.
But I can still hear her laughter brushing the back of my neck like a warm breath.