I married my best friend’s wealthy grandfather for financial security—and on our wedding night, he looked at me and said, “Now that you’re my wife… I can finally tell you the truth.” I was never the pretty one. Not at school. Not anywhere. The kind of girl people look at unless they’re laughing. An awkward smile, uncomfortable posture, always slightly out of place—too quiet or too much at the wrong moment. By high school, I had accepted it—no one was ever going to fall in lo …

Violet came to visit during my moving day, loaded down with organic food stuffs and the kind of optimistic attitude I found utterly draining.

“You need curtains,” she said, pointing at my empty window that overlooked a wall made of brick.

“I need rent money,” I told her.

“Come now, don’t be like that. This weekend, my family is coming together at the estate for dinner. Come.”

That is how I came to know Rick, her grandfather.

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When I first walked into the Thorne estate, I felt like an outsider among my own kind. The ceilings towered overhead and had their own climatic conditions, and the silverware was worth more than my college education combined. In the first half hour of dining, I spent all of my energy trying to eat my meal without triggering some invisible protocol of etiquette that would result in my expulsion from the estate.

Rick observed me. He was a man who seemed to be chiseled from granite and had eyes that didn’t simply observe but rather recorded you as soon as you came under their scrutiny.

“Is there a specific reason why you’re negotiating with the silverware, Miss Miller?” he inquired in a deep basso tone that drowned out the soft murmurs of his offspring.

There was silence at the table. I felt the flush of shame rise up my cheeks and neck. I met his gaze head-on, and oddly enough, the feeling of intimidation fled and left behind a flash of defensive humor.