Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Guts, motivation, and a working Amazon account.”
“I have at least two out of the three.” Motivation wasn’t my middle name, but I was fired up about the entire situation.
Keller laughed. “Good enough. Grab a pen and paper, and start writing this down.”
I was going to fight back against Nameless Asshole.
And win.
I didn’t go downstairs for dinner.
I couldn’t stomach anything, was too scared to see him again, and didn’t have an appetite.
Oh, and also, my door was still locked from the outside, though I had no idea what magician-slash-bodyguard trick he used to make that happen.
I was a prisoner in my own home. Simple as that.
That night, sleep did not come. I kept thinking about the plan Keller and I had come up with to get rid of Sergeant Scumbag. It seemed juvenile, half-baked. I wasn’t sure it was going to work. But doing something felt better than doing nothing.
Sunrises had always been my best friend. My constant companion in the lonely existence of being Hallie Thorne. They reminded me that every day was new, fresh, and held endless opportunities.
But when the sun rose the day after Nameless Asshole stormed into my life, all I felt was dread and anger.
Hours crawled in succession. I remained completely motionless in my bed processing, plotting, overthinking. Then, for the first time in my life, I heard the telltale signs of another human in the house.
Despite growing up in boarding schools, I’d always lived on my own. I’d never had any roommates. Mom and Dad forbade it. They’d said that confidentiality was key for people like us. That other kids would kill to have their own room, and I should be thankful for the privacy.
They didn’t care that I wanted company, friends, actual relationships.
Relationships were off-limits for me. They posed a security risk. A political risk.
Each year, my parents would email me a curated list of people with whom I could socialize from my class. Every year, the choices not only consisted of, but were limited to, girls who wanted nothing to do with me.
The Brainiacs, the overachievers, found me lacking. Not smart enough, not interesting enough, not motivated enough. They snubbed me, making the task of living a pseudo-normal life impossible.
I never went to the movies with friends, never attended parties, never slurped neon slushies with a classmate. Nobody wanted to hang out with the weird Thorne girl.
I had also suspected what I now knew to be true—my parents hadn’t isolated me from others for my own benefit. They didn’t want me to have confidantes. People I could share my life and secrets with. They didn’t want a scandalous headline on their hands in case I put my faith in the wrong person. Anthony and Julianne Thorne still didn’t care about my mental health as much as they did their precious reputation.
They wanted me to come back home so they could monitor me.
I always refused. I’d had a taste of what it felt like to be with them during holidays. They fawned over Hera, their perfect child, while berating me for the way I looked and behaved, the second-best grades I brought home.
After I graduated from high school, friendless as a junk food wrapper on a bench, I went to a community college in Los Angeles. Mom and Dad were horrified. They’d wanted me to go to Harvard or Yale. At the very least Dartmouth. But I liked the idea of “slumming it with the plebs” they “protected” me from. Thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally find my crowd in people who didn’t have a trust fund and shadow yachts.
My parents had rented me this Hollywood Hills mansion. The terms were clear—they were happy to pay whatever the owner was asking, as long as nobody else lived here.
No boyfriend, no roommate, no BFF.
I cried and begged, reasoned and bargained, but nothing worked.
And so, pathetically, today marked the first time I’d heard the noises of someone else living under the same roof as me. And for it to be someone as hostile as him stole a treasured hope. My heart coiled into itself painfully, the vines around it twisting. My chest hurt.
I heard a door on the second floor whining open—probably of the bedroom the bastard had now claimed as his own—followed by footsteps descending the curved stairway. The Nespresso machine coming to life. The drapes were pushed open. A speakerphone call between Nameless Asshole and a man I assumed was his business partner ensued.
“How’s L.A.?” the other person asked. He sounded wide awake, so I guessed Asshole was either from the East Coast or Midwest.
“Filthy. Ugly. Plastic.” Asshole opened the screen door leading to the backyard. The casualness in which he used my house as his own made my blood boil.
“Having fun, I see.” The other man laughed. “Is she…?”
“Bearable?” Nameless Asshole completed. “No. As likeable as an ingrown toenail.”