I nod, fully aware of why she’s letting me drop out of Lancaster.
She’s buying my silence.
My compliance.
And I’m going to let her.
Forty-Three
Summer
Sixteen months later
I exit the Uber, taking a deep breath of the fresh, damp morning air before I start across the square, toward my destination. I’ve been in Europe, specifically Paris, for the last year. I attend school, studying art history, immersing myself completely in learning the different art periods, the meanings behind the paintings. Studying the artists themselves. It’s been grueling. Fascinating.
I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.
I used to surround myself with beautiful people. Dazzled by their wealth and what they were able to do with it. Now I surround myself with meaningful art instead. Beautiful people will hurt you. It’s just their way. Beautiful art?
It allows you to study it. Absorb it. It makes you feel. And it rarely hurts.
I make my way across the square, taking in the stately buildings surrounding me. The designer stores that are still closed. The hotel in the distance, subtle. You’d never guess a famous landmark was only a few feet away.
Of course, he would stay there. It makes perfect sense.
I haven’t spent much time exploring the 1st arrondissement beyond visiting the Louvre, and even then, I don’t venture much beyond the museum and the gardens that surround it. I’m not one to visit the shops much anymore. Though I never really was. I don’t need to shop, to buy the latest designer clothing or handbags.
I leave that sort of thing up to my mother.
Place Vendome is quiet in the morning. The elegant buildings remind me of another time. The massive column in the center, with the statue of Napoleon on top. I stop and gaze up at it, absorbing the history, the cool breeze, the chatter of French women as they walk behind me.
Leaving everyone behind, leaving the US, has been the balm my damaged soul needed. What the Lancasters did to me still hurts, even after all of this time. Especially Whit, who never reached out to me once I left. He never called, never texted, and I haven’t seen him since. Did he believe the lies his mother told? I’m sure Sylvie spun an intricate tale as well.
After everything Whit and I had been through, it still bothers me that he believed them over me. But of course, they’re family. I’m nothing. He discarded me easily, and never looked back. What we shared ended up a vicious dirty little secret after all. He’s a monster. A villain.
And I’m his stupid little plaything.
Yet despite it all, my feelings haven’t faded. I miss him.
Sometimes, I’m afraid my feelings toward him have only gotten stronger, which is terrifying.
After everything that happened at the Lancaster home, the day after Thanksgiving, Mother took me to a store and purchased me a new phone, and changed my number. I shut down all of my social media, never bothering to check any of my comments or private messages before I did. I started an Instagram account, but don’t really post. I’m on TikTok. I see what’s going on with the people that I went to high school with. Most of them have public accounts, broadcasting all of their exploits for the world to see. I study their posts, watch their stories, and sometimes, when I’m feeling especially lonely, yearning will rise within me. Reminding me of everything I’ve lost.
But being here, I’ve gained so much more.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I will continue to make them, but I feel more in control now. More mature. I know I still have a lot of growing to do, but I was on the track to nowhere back in the States. At Lancaster. With my mother. If I’d stayed in the city, God knows what would’ve happened to me. I am without a doubt my mother’s daughter, though I don’t plan on following in her footsteps.
I see her mistakes. And how she continues to make them.
Using men, depending on them in order to survive, I refuse to do that. I want to fall in love with a man despite his wealth. I don’t care whether he has money or not—I already know it doesn’t buy happiness. I want to create my own career, my own life, so I’m solely dependent on myself.
And no one else.
Ironically enough, right after I graduated early from high school, and before I left for Europe, Mother admitted she kept something from me—Jonas had left me a small inheritance. An account that I could use for college—or whatever I wished. I think of the money as a gift. A blessing from Jonas. I’m sorry we lost him. I know Mother panicked, and believed we would’ve lost everything, which she was probably right. I hate that he died because of it. I loved him as if he were my own father, though I’m not sure how my mother felt about him near the end.
I have no regrets over Yates though. I hope he burns in hell.
My gaze catches on the Van Cleef and Arpels shop nearby and I wander over to study the window display, my gaze lingering on the glittering jewels. Part of a special Romeo and Juliet themed collection, which reminds me of senior year honors English with Whit. Star-crossed lovers who are forbidden to see each other because of their rival families.
Sounds familiar.
The jewelry glitters and shines under the lights. Van Cleef is one of the most expensive, coveted brands. Jonas gave Mother one of their Alhambra necklaces for her birthday when I was fourteen. There was a time she wore that necklace every single day, showing off to everyone she encountered that she was wealthy enough to own one.
Turning away from the window, I go to the Ritz, entering the hotel and trying my best not to look like a country bumpkin who can’t stop staring at the opulence surrounding me. The lobby is absolutely gorgeous, as if I’m stepping into another time. The air, fragrant. The people, elegant. Bountiful spring flower arrangements are everywhere, glittering chandeliers hanging above my head, casting fragmented light into the room.
“My favorite season!”
I glance over to see Monty approaching as he glides down a flight of elegantly curved stairs, a smile on his friendly face. I go to him, his arms coming around me and holding me close. I cling to him, giving him a squeeze, so thankful we have remained friends. He somehow found my obscure new Instagram profile and reached out via DMs. We’ve stayed in contact ever since. When he messaged me recently saying he would be in Paris and wanted to get together, I couldn’t agree fast enough.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says as he pulls away, his hands still clutching my shoulders. He blatantly checks me out in his typical way. “You look marvelous. Paris is good to you.”
“You look wonderful too,” I tell him. It is so nice to see a friendly face. “Why are you in Paris?”
“Oh darling, let’s save that for when we sit down. Now come, let’s go have some tea and discussion.”
Monty escorts me to a lovely restaurant that’s straight out of a Parisian dream. Beautiful gilt trim frames the massive windows, the ceiling painted the color of the sky, the paneled walls painted a milky white. All of the furniture is cream and pale pink and the lightest gold, the tablecloths a stark, pure white with thin glass vases filled with delicate fresh flower arrangements.
We sit on the dainty chairs, and I quietly admire Monty, who seems completely in his element. Wearing a brown checkered suit and a pastel yellow button up, sans tie, his longish hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes dancing with mischief as they meet mine.