Page 28 of Tormented Heir

I hit twenty-one, graduated, and moved back to America for good. Dad changed colleges, moved us closer to the coast, and that’s when he met Hana. She works as a secretary at the college he’s tenured at now, and her money must all be from her dead husband because no way does a secretary earn enough for this kind of house. Now, she has her claws into Dad, and he seems smitten.

He isn’t glamorous or rich. I’ve concluded that she simply hated being alone and wanted company. The fact that they both like their wine, and in Dad’s case, whiskey too, probably didn’t hurt the attraction.

As for Dad, he clearly fell for her surface beauty, and they were married in a whirlwind after only dating for a few months. Does he regret it? Does he sit in this shiny, new, soulless house and miss his messy office, the garden with the weeping willow tree? Does he really believe it when he defends her? I could keep pushing, but that might drive him further away from me.

Does he miss England, rainy days, and long walks in the woods with Mum? I know I do. Her absence is like a toothache. I feel it all the time, every day, but at varying intensities. Some days I can ignore it, but other days the pain is sharp and insistent.

“Chop, chop. Stop daydreaming and run to the store, oh, and grab some capers too.” Hana purses her lips.

She stands, walks to me, and tugs on my ponytail. “Why does such a beautiful girl insist on always wearing her hair up? And never putting on makeup?” she asks. I don’t think she’s speaking to me, just venting her dismay to the universe. “The glasses are bad enough, but this hair only makes it worse. You know, you could be a stunner, but you seem to revel in being dowdy.” She sways a little on her feet and holds onto a chair to steady herself.

I don’t explain myself. She isn’t owed that.

From the age of thirteen it started, and it freaked me out. The looks, the comments. Dirty old men who should know better watched me with hungry gazes, their eyes raking me up and down. They tried to talk to me too.

Before she died, Mum told me I had great beauty, but it was a curse to be so striking. She told me to be careful and hide it if I had to. She also told me not to trust most boys. “Find a good man,” she used to say. “A good man doesn’t need glamorous clothes and makeup to see true beauty. Let your inner self shine through, the way mine did for your father.”

I did as she said. I didn’t wear makeup, even when all my friends were experimenting with it, and the clothes she bought me were baggy and boring. I got used to them and continued to buy them after she passed away. I pulled my hair back, read my books, wore my glasses, and waited. I waited for my prince. The man who would see me for who I really was.

Along the way, plenty of frogs made themselves known to me. Despite my boring hair, my lack of makeup, and the clothes hiding my figure, I was still inundated with harassment from men. They whistled at me. Catcalled. Tried to touch me. One guy even sat next to me on an empty bus once and proceeded to try to film me with his phone.

When I got to college, I hoped my luck might change, but I overheard the boys talking about how they would love to screw me, and they placed bets on who would get to me first. They said I was hot but weird, and they’d report back on if I was any good in bed. I retreated farther into myself.

I became known as the nerdy girl. The bookish one, and by less kind students, the weird one.

Soon any offers dried up, the chat up lines died down, and even the friendships I had tentatively made cooled off. All except one, with the girl who became my best friend. As for the others? I was deep in the wild wilderness of grief, and frankly, I didn’t care. I had my books, and they got me through. I attained a first-class degree in English Literature because I had few distractions, but how the hell do you turn that into a job if you don’t want to teach or be a librarian?

My student loans are massive, and I need a job, but when I arrived here and attended my father’s wedding, even still reeling from the shock of it, I quickly realized that Cade needed me around. I’ve become stuck in a catch-22. I want work, hell, I’d take shifts in a coffee shop right now, but I don’t want to be out of the house for long hours when I’m so worried about Cade.

Hana’s drinking has worsened considerably in the last few weeks, making me more concerned.

Hence why I’m stuck here today, instead of job hunting, dealing with the stepmom from hell.

She pulls the band out of my hair and fluffs it a little before taking my glasses off. “You need them for reading not walking,” she snaps.

I’ve explained to her that they’re prescription lenses for use all the time, but I need them the most for reading. They aren’t the same kind of reading glasses older people need. She never listens, though. As I can see without them, and I can’t face a row, I sigh and walk away.

The quicker I get the food and get home, the faster I can get a meal on the stove for Cade, and then I can go pick him up. I’ll take him to the park for a bit before we come home. He loves the park. He likes to pet the dogs. I know he would love a puppy, but Hana refuses to consider it.

As I near the front door, I pause. There’s a dark shadow outlined through the glass, and I know it isn’t Dad. He doesn’t have the height or the bulk. The fist on the glass makes me jump.

I open the door, and a man with dark hair, brown eyes, and a scar across his top lip stares down at me. His mouth twitches into a twisted smile. “Well, well, well, who are you?”

A small gasp behind me has me turning around. Hana stands at the kitchen door, peering into the hallway. Her eyes widen when she sees the man standing there.

“Ali, what are you doing here?”

“That isn’t a polite greeting for your cousin,” the man huffs. “How about you ask me in? Dorian is worried about you.”

Dorian? I recall her mentioning the name a few times. I think he’s Hana’s cousin too, or some kind of relation. I know my father had said he didn’t think Dorian should come around, and that’s why the name had stuck. I’d overheard them discussing it one night and thought it odd that he didn’t think Hana’s cousin should visit.

The man pauses and looks at me again, then he shocks me by putting his hands on my waist and pressing in so that my baggy sweater hugs my flesh.

“Hmm,” he says under his breath as he stares at my figure, clearer now with his hands pushing my sweater in at the sides. “This the stepdaughter?”

“Yes,” Hana snaps. “She’s just leaving, aren’t you, Adriana?”

“Yes,” I say, for once not wanting to argue with her. I just want this man to take his hands off me.

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