Chapter 2
Sophia froze in her tracks.
For a girl like her, calling her fashion sense ugly was a fate worse than death.
I could just picture her now, tearing through her closet in a full-blown panic.
Satisfied, I turned back to the room, just in time to see Andrew push his glasses up his nose with a look of faux apology in his eyes.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "My brother and sister can be a bit spoiled.
"But that's just how it is in a family like this, isn't it?
"I'm not sure what we're supposed to call you. Ms. Carter? Stepmother?"
With a strained smile, he said, "Apologies. This is all taking some getting used to."
He was smiling, but every word was a subtle jab, reminding me I was the outsider.
I just tapped the marriage certificate again and demanded curtly, "Call me Mom."
He squinted at me as his smile vanished.
I ignored his glare and asked Layton to take my luggage to my room.
In what felt like minutes, all my belongings were there, arranged exactly as they had been in my old apartment. The efficiency was staggering.
I flopped onto the ridiculously large bed and let myself drift into a nap, a luxury I hadn't been able to afford in years.
My whole life had been one long grind.
As an orphan, I had no one to fall back on but myself. I always believed in the hustle and that hard work was the only path to luck. And yet, here I was, about to become a kept woman.
Life's a trip.
But my peace was short-lived.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Sophia was pounding on my door.
"You bitch!" she yelled through the wood. "What's so ugly about this outfit? You're just a tasteless old hag! This is high fashion!"
She threw the door open and pointed a condemning finger at my own closet, which Richard's staff had pre-stocked with logo-plastered designer clothes.
"Now that," she spat, "is what's truly ugly. Only a new-money wannabe would wear that crap."
I gently pushed her finger away.
"First," I said calmly, "that's your father's taste, not mine. And second, you're right. It's hideous."
Before she could erupt, I added, "And the outfit you're wearing? If that's your own style, then I'm sorry to say your fashion sense is a catastrophe. If it's your friend's taste..."
I let the sentence hang. As I expected, she bit.
"What if it is?"
I tilted my head, offering a sympathetic smile. "Look, I'm not trying to start drama.
"But she's probably jealous of you. Think about it. You're in middle school, dressing like a college girl at a club.
"Your teachers hate it, and your family disapproves.
"I bet the other kids whisper behind your back, don't they?
"This 'friend' has it all figured out. She hypes you up, making you feel understood, while simultaneously making sure everyone else sees you as a problem.
"You end up isolated, with her as the only one who 'gets' you. And you fall for it, thinking she's your bestie."
Sophia looked furious but also conflicted.
Her teachers were constantly on her case about the way she dressed.
They always lectured her about her outfits giving the school a bad name.
When their lectures fell on deaf ears, her relatives would resort to insults, accusing her of having no dignity and demeaning herself.
They insisted her friends were a toxic influence and threatened to cut her off from them completely.
She was numb to that. In fact, after every one of those talks, she would deliberately dress in an even more provocative style.
But this was a new angle.
Indeed, her friends did make her feel understood. But what was there to be jealous of? She was just a rich kid, nothing special.
Flustered, she stomped her foot, yelling, "It's my freedom to dress how I want!
"If they don't get it, they're just old-fashioned! I have a great body, and if they talk about me, it's because they're jealous!"
I nodded with mock gravity and replied, "Right. Freedom of expression means wearing as little as possible.
"Your friends are so supportive! Great!
"So, a bikini to school tomorrow? I can help you pick a color."
My words were slow, dripping with sarcasm.
Humiliated, Sophia let out a cry of frustration, kicked my door, and stormed away.