They were right. I was privileged and sheltered, but that didn’t mean I wanted to turn out like them, let them mold me into something I didn’t want to be. Our relationship had been difficult for years and it was time for me to do something about it. Join the real world. See if I could hack it on my own.

I stood up, put my hands on my hips and said, “I’d better go pack my stuff.”

Knowing how the minds of the infallible Ronan and Suzanna Hetherington worked, I suspected they had a bet going as to how long it would take me to fold and come back, homemade ceramic begging bowl in hand, compliance at the ready. Quentin had probably taken that bet, as well. But they all lost because I hadn’t returned. I’d remained stubborn, moved into a crappy little apartment, worked three jobs six days a week—often seven—to make rent and save for my art degree every single month. I knew what people would think if I told them about my background: poor little rich girl, waah, waah—and so I never told anyone. There were millions of individuals trying to make ends meet, my situation was hardly a rarity or special.

Had it been hard? Excruciatingly. Had I become disillusioned? Of course. I’d worked in so many different places I’d lost count. My most regular gig was bartending, but I’d also been a store clerk, a dog walker, and given car detailing a go. The things people left in their vehicles had astounded me: full wallets, cell phones, dirty underwear, even used condoms—nothing was off-limits to some—and, although it had been gross at times, it had been fun, right up until a customer grabbed me between my legs and asked if it was where he could leave me a tip. I was pretty sure he left with a cracked rib from where I’d elbowed him. The next day I’d been fired for not being a, quote, “team player.”

Working at the bar had paid the most, and I’d been good at it, knew how to charm the customers without flirting, and calm the rowdy ones before things got out of hand. I was employed at an upscale hotel bar in Buffalo when I met Dominic Martel, a smooth-talking Frenchman who’d immediately spotted my potential—his words, not mine. He’d whispered them in my ear as we were lying in bed on our fourth date, after we’d gone back to his huge, loft-style apartment. My potential wasn’t the only thing he’d seen, because the next thing he told me was, from the glimpse he’d had of the location and size of my tiny studio when he’d picked me up, he’d also gathered I was broke.