Vague much?
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”
She gives me a haughty look. “You’ll learn soon enough, young lady. For now, let’s just say that all staff members report to me. They are my eyes and ears around the estate. Nothing happens without my knowledge, which I then report to Mr. Callahan.”
Message received loud and clear.
There are spies everywhere.
If I had to guess, I’d say my sperm donor is a control freak.
Ms. Williams clears her throat. “Now, as I was saying, this area of the house is reserved for you and Miss Peyton. You each have a bedroom with a built-in ensuite, then a shared game room—which also doubles as a small theater room—and a guest bathroom. I’ll take you on a formal tour after dinner and you can see the rest. You’ll have free rein over all common areas and guest rooms, but you are not permitted to enter the north wing unless invited. That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Callahan reside.”
Jesus Christ, who needs their own personal wing? This damn bedroom alone is bigger than my old apartment.
“Who the hell is Peyton?”
The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepen when she frowns. “Young lady, foul language will not be tolerated. It makes you sound like a hoodlum—I suggest you correct that immediately.”
Oh, bitch, you just wait and see how much of a hoodlum I can be.
She continues, completely ignoring my glare. “As for Miss Peyton... she is your stepsister.”
Wait a second... I have a stepsister? Why didn’t Davina tell me that?
“How old is she?”
“She’s seventeen, just like you. You’ll both be starting your senior year at Windsor Academy the day after tomorrow.”
“Wait... what?”
She ignores my question. “Your father will answer all of your questions at dinner—six o’clock sharp. Now, I have other matters to attend to. I suggest you freshen up and dress in something more appropriate.” Ms. Williams looks me over from head to toe. “You’re a Callahan now. You’re expected to look and act like one. But don’t worry; you’ll find that your closet is fully stocked, so you’ll have plenty of garments to choose from.” She waves her hand in a circle. “A stylist is coming tomorrow morning to take care of that awful hair.”
With that, she turns on her heels and leaves the room.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” I yell as she closes the door behind her.
Who the hell does that woman think she is? What gives her the right to speak to me like that? I finger a lock of my long, dark hair, watching as the purple streaks shine in the sun. I love my hair. My mom loved my hair—she said it fit my personality. Why would I want to change it?
I’m doing this for Belle, I remind myself. I sigh and decide that I might as well explore a little while I’m stuck here. First up is the closet, which is as ginormous and as ridiculous as I’d expected. Hundreds of items hang from the rack with a wall of shoes that must cost more than my mom made in a year. In the center of the room, there’s a built-in dresser filled with neatly folded jeans, pajamas, and frilly lingerie. Holy shit, can you say stalker? Not that I don’t appreciate pretty things, but the fact that whoever bought this stuff knew all my sizes, down to my 34-B cup boobs, creeps me out.
“So, you’re the charity case,” a snooty voice says from behind me.
I startle before turning around to find a preppy-looking girl glaring at me. She’s pretty—really pretty—and about my age. Her waist-length hair is so blonde, it’s almost white, in stark contrast with her overly spray-tanned skin. She’s dressed in a khaki skirt that hits mid-thigh with a light pink cardigan set and an honest-to-God set of pearls. As I’m taking her in, I see her lips curl in disgust as she does the same to me. This must be my new stepsister.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Ever hear of a thing called knocking?”
She does the same, pushing up her giant tits. Jeez, those suckers have to be fake. She’s tiny, other than the overinflated balloons hanging off her chest.
“I did knock. You didn’t answer.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Yet you decided to invite yourself in anyway? What do you want, Peyton?”
Her glossy pink lips turn up in the corners. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Unfortunately. Your bitchy reputation precedes you.”
I know that was a bit harsh considering I just met her, but I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character. This chick is the textbook definition of a mean girl.