The drive from the private terminal felt like a slow descent back into a life I had spent years trying to outrun. We touched down in LA with a slight delay, my heart already tight with an anxiety that no amount of deep breathing could quite settle. As we stepped outside, a chauffeur was waiting, a sharp contrast to the way I usually traveled during vacations. I'd worked summer jobs specifically to buy my own car, mostly because arriving at the Carver estate in a taxi was a social sin my parents wouldn't tolerate and our family cars that i wasn't keen know driving. If I showed up that way, they'd likely revoke my keys and ban me from leaving the house alone.
I sat in the back of the car, watching the familiar palm trees blur past. My parents provided an allowance but not as much as Mia's or my brother's, who were already being groomed for the family business, but enough that most people would call it "generous." I never spent a cent of it. Every dollar went into a separate account, right alongside my trust fund. My plan was to return every penny one day. I refused to be a commodity they could trade off in a business deal masquerading as a marriage.
I wouldn't be trapped by their gold.
The car slowed as we pulled up to the massive iron gates. These grounds were the backdrop of my childhood and the source of almost all my trauma. I closed my eyes for a second, practicing the breathing exercises my therapist had suggested, trying to find a sense of composure that felt miles away. I was already regretting my choice of clothes; I knew the second I stepped out in my sneakers and hoodie, the judgment would begin.
We drove slowly up the long, winding path until the villa came into view. It was a massive Italian-style structure, blindingly white and perfectly symmetrical. It looked more like a museum or a high-end hospital than a home. It was a place designed to be looked at, not lived in.
As the car came to a halt, I saw Charlotte standing by the main entrance, her hands folded primly in front of her. She had started as Mia's nanny, a woman hand-picked by my mother for her "discipline," but had since risen to the role of head butler. Seeing her made my stomach turn. I still remembered Darla, the woman who had actually cared for me, and how Charlotte had been the one to whisper our secrets into my mother's ear until Darla was kicked out.
Charlotte was the eyes and ears of this house, and her gaze was already scanning me with that familiar, cold disapproval. I stepped out of the car, clutching my duffle bag like a shield, and prepared to enter the "Ice Palace" once again.