Chapter 2
2
Victoria
They say girls like me are born lucky.
Wrapped in silk. Schooled in etiquette. Raised in homes where the paintings are real and the smiles are not. We grow up knowing which fork to use, when to laugh, and how to fold grief into polite conversation.
But I don’t feel lucky…
I feel caged.
The kind of cage that has a beautiful view, but it’s still a prison, nonetheless.
From the second-floor balcony, I watched them arrive. Now I’m watching as they go back to grab their belongings out of an old, battered sedan that looks like it’s seen better days. For a second, when they first pulled up to the house, I didn’t even think it would make it up the driveway, but in the end, it did.
It sputtered the whole way, but now it’s safely parked in the loading dock. The woman opens the trunk. If the chatter I heard near the kitchen is true, her name is Angela, and she’s starting with the kitchen staff today. She seems calm and capable as she rummages through the trunk. Next up is the boy from before—correction, a man, or maybe somewhere in between. Hard to tell from this angle.
He heads over to where the woman, whom I assume is his mother is, then grabs the bag from her hand before slamming the trunk in anger.
There is something dark about him, an anger I can see even from where I’m hiding in the shadows.
He leans against the car with a chip on his shoulder and a patch of hair falling in his eyes.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of handsome you don’t see on magazine covers because it’s too raw, too real.
He doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the car or the clothes, but because he’s looking at the estate like he wants to burn it to the ground.
Good.
I’m tired of people who submit.
It’s hard enough being Victoria Danforth, but when people suck up to me, it’s even worse.
I’m no one special, despite what my parents think, and even then, they consider me a prize and possession, not a living, breathing teen with real feelings and thoughts.
The stranger steps away from the car and heads toward the door. With each step he takes, the arm muscles visible in his T-shirt flex. My cheeks warm. I might not know this guy, but wow.
He’s going to make it hard not to want to.
There is no question that he is the best-looking person I have ever seen.
With dark eyes and a chiseled jaw, I want to head downstairs and get a better look at him, but I can’t, of course. That would not be acceptable behavior for a girl like me.
Instead, I step forward, crossing my arms over the balcony and looking down.
I’m torn between wanting him to see me again and hoping he doesn’t.
But when his gaze catches mine, and my heart threatens to burst from my chest, I realize getting caught staring is the least of my problems.
This boy is dangerous.
And I don’t just mean that figuratively. He’s the type of guy who will break my heart if I let him, and seeing how my pulse won’t slow down, if given the chance, I will.
“Still need your name p>
He doesn’t answer.
With eyes locked, we’re at a standstill, and I wonder who will break the connection first.
He chooses to.
And when he strides away, it feels like this was all a dream.
Like I imagined the connection.
I must stand there for a few moments, but eventually, when a soft breeze tickles my skin, thoughts of having to speak to my parents hit me like a freight train.
This summer is going to suck.
Or…
Maybe it won’t.
This new guy could help.