Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Grandfather stands, commanding attention like he always has. “You will find someone suitable. Someone who can help guide you toward your responsibilities. And you will present them at the gala.”
“And if I don’t?” The paperweight is warm in my palm now. I resist the urge to throw it.
“Then perhaps it’s time to consider other arrangements for the family legacy.” Father won’t meet my eyes. “Your trust fund, your position at the bank, your housing—all of it comes with certain expectations.”
The threat lands like a physical blow. My mind races through possibilities. No money means no safety net, no escape route. The walls feel closer suddenly, the tick-tick-tick of the clock drowning out everything else.
“You have three months,” Grandfather says like he’s doing me a favor. “Find someone appropriate or face the consequences.”
I stand so fast my chair tips backward. Mother catches it with practiced ease. It’s not the first time I’ve knocked something over in this room.
“Someone appropriate,” I echo, voice hollow. “And I suppose you already have candidates in mind? Some nice debutante who can pray away my demons and pop out perfect Sterling babies?”
No one denies it.
The worst part is, under the anger and panic, a small voice makes me wonder if they’re right. Maybe if I just tried harder, wanted different things, was different …
Fuck that voice.
The paperweight hits Father’s desk with a thunk that makes Mother jump. “Three months to find my very own conversion therapy spouse. How generous of you all.”
I’m out the door before they can respond, their voices blending with the tick-tick-tick of that fucking clock until I can’t hear anything else.
Three months to find someone who can convince the Sterling family I’m worth keeping.
Three months to save myself or lose everything.
Shit. I make it to my vehicle as my anger rides sharp through me.
My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel of my Jeep Wrangler, still parked in front of Sterling House. The urge to peel out, to further fuck up their preciously leveled gravel, burns through me. But I don’t move.
Can’t move.
My mind races in twelve different directions—trust fund digits flashing behind my eyes, the weight of generations of Sterling men pressing down on my chest, the memory of Promised Land’s scratchy sheets against my skin. I bounce my leg, trying to ground myself in the present, but everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.
Three months.
Find someone appropriate.
Someone suitable.
Someone who can fix me.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging toward hysterical. The garden club ladies are leaving now, their perfectly coiffed heads bobbing past my open Jeep like vultures. Probably already composing texts about Lee Sterling’s latest drama. The black sheep. The family disappointment. The one who can’t just be normal.
My phone buzzes. Drew.
Another buzz. Bel.
A third. Emma.
I ignore them all, pressing my forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel. Focus on breathing. In. Out. Don’t think about the walls closing in or the weight of expectations or how fucking unfair it all is.
A flash of memory hits—brown eyes in a dark pantry, gentle understanding without judgment. No expectations. No demands. Just the quiet acceptance of broken pieces.
I sit up so fast my head spins. Pantry Girl. The one person who might understand what it’s like to wear masks, navigate other people’s expectations, and be broken without needing to be fixed. It’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst I’ve had, and that’s saying something, considering last month’s naked skydiving incident.
But …
She needs something, too. I saw it in her eyes and heard it in the whispers at the party. She needs protection, legitimacy, a shield against whatever demons chase her through campus.
I could give her that. But I need an in first. I think back to the files and squeeze my eyes closed. Dr. Martinez was her doctor at Willow Grove, and by her letterhead, I noticed she also has a private outpatient practice. Might be something to check out. Give me a way to connect with her on a familiar level.
Fuck, if everything in those files is true, no wonder that happy girl broke under the strain. Losing so much so fast like she did. And by the notes on her home life, she’s not as accustomed to the push and pull of familial expectations as my friends and I are.
She could give me three months of freedom, three months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. There’s only one little hang-up. She’s definitely a runner, so getting her to agree to what I have in mind won’t be easy.
My phone buzzes again. It’s probably my mother with a list of suitable candidates—all daughters of her garden club cronies, I’m sure.
Fuck it.
I start the Jeep, its familiar rumble grounding me as my mind races ahead, plans forming and dissolving like smoke. It’s insane. It’s perfect. It’s probably going to blow up in both of our faces.