I wake up to the sound of silence. No maid knocking on my door, no staff bustling through the hallways, no one to greet me with a cup of coffee in hand. No one here to cater to me.
I blink a few times, confused and disoriented. It's not like I've never lived in a big house before. I've grown up in a mansion, after all. But there was always someone, someone to attend to me, someone to make my life easy. Now, it's just me, alone in this gigantic, soulless house.
I drag myself out of bed, half-dazed, and look around the room. It's beautiful, too beautiful, even. Soft, expensive sheets. A four-poster bed. Heavy velvet curtains hanging like something out of a fairytale. The windows look out onto a pristine garden that's more like a landscape painting than reality.
And yet, none of it feels like home. It feels like a museum. Everything is too perfect, too cold. Where's the life?
I force myself out of bed and make my way downstairs. The house is unnervingly quiet. There are no servants rushing around, no maids calling my name, no one scurrying to open doors for me. There's just silence. The empty, oppressive kind.
I step into the kitchen, expecting to find a helper, but the place is as empty as the rest of the house. The counters are spotless, the fridge well-stocked, and yet, I have to fend for myself. I feel a flash of anger. No butler, no nanny.
I open the fridge, searching for something simple, but I don't know where anything is. Eggs? Bread? I end up staring at the shelves, feeling the heat of frustration rise in me. I've never had to do this before.
I settle for making eggs, but even that feels like a chore. As I crack the eggs into the pan, I can't help but feel resentful. This isn't me. I don't do this. This isn't what I was raised for.
As I sit down to eat, I can't help but think about my parents. They're enjoying themselves, I bet. Laughing and talking with the Montgomerys, just like everything's fine.
They probably don't even care what I'm doing right now. They've abandoned me here, and now I'm left to pick up the pieces of the life they've just decided I should live.
The eggs taste like cardboard. The coffee is bland. I don't care about any of it.
I shove the plate aside, already tired of everything. The idea of shopping sounds like a balm to my soul right now, shopping always makes things better. Maybe I'll just grab my phone and call up the mall. It's not like I need to be here anyway.
But then I remember. I don't have my cards anymore. No allowance. No designer bags. No fun.
I push back from the table, irritated beyond belief. I look out the window at the gardens and just feel restless. I want to go back to my life, my old life. The one where I didn't have to worry about doing everything myself. I don't belong here.
I walk around the house aimlessly, until I finally stumble across a room that looks like some sort of study.
I walk in, hoping to find something to occupy my time, but it's the same as everything else in this house—cold and sterile. Nothing to distract me, nothing to help me forget that I'm stuck in this hellhole.
Just then, I hear footsteps. And I know exactly who it is.
Rafael Montgomery.
I brace myself for the inevitable, and when he steps into the study, I'm already annoyed. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, assessing me with that infuriating, superior gaze of his.
"What are you doing here?" I snap, even though I know perfectly well why he's here.
"Shouldn't you be figuring out how to get yourself breakfast?" His voice is laced with that cold sarcasm that makes my blood boil. "What, no servants to cater to your every need today?"
I grit my teeth, the anger simmering inside me like a volcano waiting to erupt. I hate the way he looks at me, like I'm some kind of helpless child. It's as if I've never had to take care of myself. Does he think I don't know how to handle my own life?
"I don't need your commentary," I shoot back, my voice tight with frustration.
He shrugs, his casual attitude only making it worse. "You really do, though. I've never met someone so used to being handed everything. Spoiled little princess."
The words hit like a slap. Spoiled. He might as well have thrown a glass of ice-cold water in my face. My heart races in anger. How dare he?
I stand up, my fists clenching. "You don't know anything about me," I hiss. "So don't talk to me like you do."
But Rafael only gives me a cold, knowing look. "I know exactly what you are, Amanda," he says, voice dripping with disdain. "A girl who has never had to do a single thing for herself. A spoiled brat who's never been told 'no.'"
That's it. My blood boils over. I take a step toward him, not caring if I look like a fool. "You think you're better than me? Just because you live here and act like you've got everything figured out?"
"I don't think I'm better than you. I just know what it means to actually work for something," he says coolly, turning on his heel as if this conversation is already over.
I'm left standing there, heart pounding, chest heaving with anger. He doesn't even care. He doesn't care that I feel humiliated, that he just judged me for being raised differently.
He's already halfway to the door when he pauses. "By the way, you should try the library if you're looking for something to do," he says casually, his tone mocking.
I don't say anything as he leaves. I just stand there, fists clenched, my thoughts swirling in a blur of anger and resentment.
The nerve of that guy. Rafael Montgomery, with his perfect little life, his cold eyes, and his arrogant smile.
I don't need his approval. I don't need anyone's approval. I'll show him just how wrong he is. I'll prove him wrong in every way possible.
But deep down, a part of me wonders: How much longer can I keep pretending I don't care?