“Be nice.” Mom snaps. “She’s a little… overwhelmed.”

I look over at my three-story mansion with its seven waterfalls, strategically parked sports cars, and brick driveway and shake my head. “No. Shit.”

Chapter Two

Mary-Belle

I’m petrified I’m going to break something.

I knew when Sarah took me in that she had money, and quite honestly, I didn’t care at the time because I was so done carrying around a black trash bag from house to house and getting leered at by some of the men I was forced to live with.

Some were great.

But I always had my guard up, you just never know, and after one bad experience, you tend to brace yourself for another and another until all you have are shields up like a damn Star Trek episode while the Klingons go full phasers

I may also be a huge Trekkie with zero shame, but the example still works.

I’m holding a brand-new iPhone in my right hand, staring down at it and trying not to look up all the news stories they warned would come out about me.

I’m the shiny new charity case.

With her shiny new phone.

And I get to go to a shiny new private school on top of that—starting tomorrow—with what I can only imagine has some of the most stuck-up people on the planet attending.

People who don’t know what it’s like to starve.

Or what it’s like to sleep with the lights on, just in case.

I twirl my long blonde braid to keep my other hand occupied and take a deep breath as Mr. McCree paces in front of me on his phone.

I hear phrases like. “Money is no object. Get it done. I want it delivered now.” And then he’s covering up the phone and asking if I like pink.

I almost laugh but shrug instead.

My foster mom is dead, and I’m sitting with a black trash bag at my feet. And he wants to know if I like pink.

Can’t I just say a bed would be nice, maybe a pillow so I can scream into it and then cry?

I keep a polite smile on my face as he talks. And freeze up when the front door opens and footsteps sound.

I don’t know why but the hairs on the back of my arms stand on end as the smell of expensive cologne wafts by me.

He salutes his dad before going to the immaculate kitchen, grabbing a water, and looking toward me.

I find a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that he chokes a bit as we make eye contact.

And his eyes are—beautiful.

A glassy dark blue that seems to almost reflect my exact same panic. His hair color is a shade of amber and gold that makes him look like the prince he is, and of course, it’s shaved high up on the sides with potentially perfect man bun execution if he wanted.

He looks like a younger version of David Beckham.