Chapter 2

2.

"You’re back." His voice was flat, like he was discussing the weather, not welcoming his stepdaughter.

"Richard, this is Chloe." Mom gave me a gentle shove, wearing a bright, almost fawning smile. "Chloe, say hello."

I stepped forward. "Hello, Richard."

He swiped on his tablet, not even looking up. After a long few seconds, he let out a grunt. "Hmph."

His gaze swept over my soaked canvas shoes―Target specials. His jaw tightened slightly.

"I just had the carpets steam cleaned."

Even without looking up, his disdain was palpable.

"Guest room is upstairs, first door on the left. The maid already prepped it."

"Thank you, honey." Mom looked relieved, practically pushing me toward the stairs.

"See?" she whispered urgently. "Richard is generous. As long as we don’t cause trouble, we’re set for life."

The guest room was huge. The decor was "hospital white," full of chrome accents. Cold.

"Mom," I called out as she turned to leave.

"What now?"

"Can I switch rooms?"

Her face instantly froze. "Are you serious? You just got here and you’re making demands?"

"This room is a thousand times better than that dog kennel in Youngstown. Don’t be ungrateful."

I kept my voice steady, conserving my energy. "This room faces north. I need a south-facing room. I need sunlight. Even a storage closet will do."

The tumor in my brain had wrecked my body's temperature regulation. I was like a reptile; only the sun made me feel alive.

"Just turn up the thermostat," Mom hissed. "The south-facing rooms are in the master wing. That’s Richard’s study and his private guest suite."

"I want that guest suite."

Mom stared at me like I was insane. "What is wrong with you? You want to sleep next to him? Do you want Richard to think I brought a wild, unruly brat into his house?"

Her voice grew shrill, like nails on a chalkboard. I covered my ears, my head feeling like it was about to split open.

There was a knock on the door frame. Richard stood there, holding a glass of Evian water, frowning.

"What’s going on? I can hear you from downstairs."

Mom’s posture softened instantly. "It’s nothing, Richard. The child is just being picky about the room. I’ll handle it."

Richard looked at me. I looked back.

Up close, his face was terrifyingly pale, almost grey. His lips had no color. He didn’t look like a billionaire; he looked like a man who was rotting from the inside out.

"Which room do you want?"

I pointed to the end of the hall. "That sunroom."

"That’s a storage room for old furniture."

"I know. But it gets the sun."

Richard scrutinized me for a long time, his eyes unreadable. "Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet."

He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.

Mom poked my forehead with her manicured nail. "You’re going to ruin us both."

"Sleeping in a storage room? What will the maids think?"

I ignored her, picked up my battered duffel bag, and walked to the end of the hall.

The room was dusty and full of furniture covered in white sheets. It smelled like mildew, but it had a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass facing south. When the sun rose tomorrow, this place would be a greenhouse.

That was enough.

I made up the sofa bed, folded my thick medical file, and shoved it under the pillow. As long as I didn’t die in this room, no one would dig through my trash.

I slept deeply that night. No debt collection calls at 3 AM. Just dead silence and darkness.