I fly out of my seat so fast, it topples over. “Fuck. You.”
Peyton and her mother gasp as Charles shoots out of his chair and yells, “Jasmine! Apologize to your mother this instant!”
I point to the uptight blonde before me. “She is not my mother.” I move over to the younger version of her. “And she is not my sister.” I nod to him. “As for you... we may share DNA, but I don’t need a daddy either—I’ve gone my entire life without one and I’ve been just fine. And how many times do I have to fucking tell you people, call me Jazz!”
His face is so red, it’s turning purple. “Go to your room right now, you disrespectful little shit!”
So much for the no cursing rule. Maybe that only applies to people without dicks.
I scoff. “Gladly.”
I’m angry with myself for losing control, but I saw red when Madeline talked about how convenient my mother’s death was. I know I’ll need to suck it up for Belle’s sake and be on my best behavior but I need some time to cool down first. The last thing I see before stomping up the stairs is Peyton’s smug smile, telling me she’s enjoying every minute of my misery. I’m definitely going to have to watch out for that one.
CHAPTER TWO
JAZZ
The next morning is filled with one primping session after another. It seems Madeline Callahan has made it her personal mission to make me look like a proper young lady. The house manager woke me up at the crack of dawn, commanded me to shower, then led me down to the salon where my new stepmother and a team of stylists were waiting to pounce. Yes, there’s an actual salon in this house, complete with adjustable height chairs, washbowls, nail stations, the works.
Madeline says the salon is an “absolute necessity” because a lady must never go out in public without looking her best. I swear the woman thinks we’re Kardashians or something. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew them considering they live around here somewhere. I indulged her this time because I’m trying to be flexible for Belle’s sake, but the bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to get up early every day to have my hair and makeup professionally done.
First of all, I have no desire to stick out and that’d be rather difficult if I looked as if I just stepped off a catwalk. Secondly, restful sleep is a rarity for me these days. I need every spare moment I can get if I actually manage to shut my brain down long enough to doze off.
My hair is now fully brunette—not a trace of purple, which Madeline says is against Windsor’s dress code—and perfectly blown out. My skin has been waxed, exfoliated, and moisturized to the extreme, and the nails on my hands and feet are painted a glossy pale pink. Madeline practically had an aneurysm when I asked the tech if she had any black polish. Apparently, a proper lady only wears shades of nude unless there’s a special occasion. Then, and only then, are reds acceptable. Under no circumstances, am I permitted to wear anything else because it would make me look cheap.
Cue the eye roll.
I already miss my mom with a gut-wrenching intensity, but this superficial bullshit amplifies it. Mahalia Rivera was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and she rarely wore makeup. Our Filipino heritage gave her skin a year-round bronzed look with eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate. She was incredibly fit from being on her feet all day working various jobs, and her smile could light up a room.
Her physical beauty wasn’t where it stopped though. My mom had the biggest heart, always helping others no matter how busy or exhausted she was. She worked hard, sometimes three jobs at a time, but not once had she complained. My sister and I never doubted her love for us; it radiated from her. She proved it, day in and day out, with her actions. If more people were like her, this world would have a lot fewer problems.
I rub the aching spot on my chest. I’ve read that emotional pain from losing someone important to you is so paramount it can manifest into physical pain. I never quite understood how that was possible, but I definitely get it now. Ever since my mom died, the sharp pains in my chest and the pit in my stomach have been constant reminders she’s no longer here. Sometimes it feels like my heart is literally splitting in two.
I take a deep breath before stepping out the back doors for inspection. Charles, Madeline, and Peyton are all sitting at a large table on the patio eating brunch. I guess they weren’t worried about starting without me.
Madeline gasps. “Oh, honey, you look beautiful! Doesn’t she look stunning, darling?”
Sperm Donor looks me over with careful scrutiny. “Yes, this will be... acceptable. For now.”
What the hell? I just had to deal with people fussing all over me for six hours to bring me up to his standards. “What’s the matter? I’m not blonde enough for you?”
All three members of my newfound family look Scandinavian, with pale hair and blue eyes. Even though Peyton is technically his stepdaughter, she looks more like Charles’ birth child than I ever will.
His jaw tics. “Are you accusing me of something, Jasmine?”
I lift a shoulder in response.
A smarmy smile stretches across his face. “My first wife—God rest her soul—was Venezuelan and my second wife is African American.”
Jesus, how many times has this guy been married?
“And?”
He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Not to mention the fact that your mother was Asian American. I certainly hope you’re not implying I would have an issue with people of color because I think my history with women would contradict that statement. It’s not a matter of race; it’s about class. You may be wearing designer clothing and appear more refined on the surface, but you wear your lack of decorum like a badge of honor.
“I realize you grew up in a different socioeconomic environment so I’ll give you some leeway, but you will learn how to carry yourself properly. If you can’t figure out how to do that on your own, I’ll have to sign you up for etiquette classes.”
Peyton smirks. I scratch the bridge of my nose with my middle finger in response.
Charles narrows his eyes. “That only reinforces my statement.”
I nod. “Got it. So, you’re not a racist but you are a classist.”
God, what is it about this man that compels me to run my mouth?
His face gets that purplish tint to it that I’m becoming awfully familiar with. “Classes begin tomorrow. I suggest you take the rest of the day to familiarize yourself with the Windsor Academy handbook. Their expectations of the student body are clearly laid out and will be adhered to.”
I pop an eyebrow. “Or else?”
Madeline places her hand on his forearm, in attempt to diffuse the situation. “Dear, I’ll have one of the maids bring some snacks to your bedroom. You just let them know if you need anything else.”
I give a flippant wave as I step back inside. It’s probably for the best so I don’t say anything else that pisses him off. My self-control is obviously lacking where Charles Callahan is concerned. I have no desire to be around a man who can dismiss me so easily anyway.
I’LL ADMIT, WINDSOR Academy’s campus is impressive. I can’t believe this place is right outside of L.A. It seems like a completely different world. As the town car pulls through the wrought-iron gates—of course Charles Callahan couldn’t be bothered to drive me here—I’m dumbstruck by the beauty of it. There are three red brick buildings, with two stories each, lined up in a semi-circle. Smaller buildings are scattered throughout, all with a similar architecture. The grounds are meticulously landscaped and surrounded by thick woods comprised of mature evergreens.