Page 9 of Under the Lies

It’s not until he lets me go that I collapse into myself, palm pressed to my chest, over my thundering heart.

Noah walks away without another word and my eyes are glued to his back. He doesn’t look back, except once. Catching my eye, he smirks. An unspoken promise sits on those lips. This isn’t over.

“What did you get me into, Harlow?” I whisper when Noah disappears from my sight completely.

As I walk to class, several minutes late, I fear it won’t be long until I have my answer.

The rest of the week passes in mundane normalcy. Or as normal as it gets being a socialite’s daughter in Haven Harbor. With my parents in Europe, I keep getting invites to go to this gala, that charity auction, and whatever insert-business-here opening. I’ve turned them all down. Instead, I’ve holed up in my quaint apartment in a not-so safe building with my snow-white cat, Pan.

Thank God for takeout delivery.

Haven Harbor, and the world occupying it, has never felt like my home, but my prison. Moving back I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t get locked away in their games.

So the best way to do that is avoid, avoid, avoid. A skill set I’ve since mastered.

The only bright spot this week has been not seeing Noah. He hasn’t made an appearance since that day on campus. As bright as that is, I know it won’t last long. The determination that filled his eyes that day, the silent promise he gave as he sauntered away were reminders that I’d be seeing him again.

It’s the when that’s tarnished my week. Set me on edge whenever I bump into someone in a nice suit. Has had me looking over my shoulder as I walked the streets.

I feel like bait on a line. Waiting and waiting for him to make good on his promise.

Part of me wishes he would just get it over with.

But that’s why he’s waiting, letting me get wound up for the perfect moment to strike. Noah lives for the surprise.

Shaking Noah from my thoughts, at least for the time being, I focus on the boxes still stacked along the hall wall.

Moving is stressful but unpacking is a bitch. I feel like it’s never ending. I empty one box and two more surface. So this is how I’m spending my Saturday night.

Except, I don’t want to finish. I don’t want to empty the last box and feel a sense of satisfaction. Because it won’t come.

Being done means my move is official, I’m truly back in Haven Harbor. The very place I swore to never return too when I was eighteen and kissed the skyline goodbye in my review mirror the second I had my diploma in hand.

I don’t hate my city, per se. I hate what it does to people.

Haven Harbor rivals New York for all things on the East Coast, food, fashion, art. Just a couple hours north, on an island much like Manhattan, you’ll find Haven Harbor.

It’s a city of opulent wealth. Where old money is celebrated and your last name is everything. It matters who your parents are, who your grandparents were, and how many zeroes are attached to your bank account.

Where you walk a minefield of hidden bombs never knowing if a single move will set off a cataclysmic disaster.

Gossip is traded like currency and scandals define your family.

My family has had a lot of scandals thanks to Harlow, who never fit the traditional mold of what the upper-crust society of Haven Harbor was looking for. Which is why my parents had me, their second chance at the perfect daughter.

And perfect I was, playing the part to a T. I got the grades, had the manners and poise. My schedule was filled with social obligations, cheerleading, and volunteering for various charities.

I was everything my parents wanted. So much so they didn’t care they stripped me of all things me.

I wasn’t a person, but a portrait, only showing the surface level.

Lost in my thoughts, I’m able to make it through one box on autopilot. I don’t even know what was in it. Glancing down at the cardboard in my hand, my handwriting spells out KITCHEN in black marker.

Hmm, okay then.

After breaking down the box, I move on to the next. Dropping to my knees, I peel off the tape. This one isn’t labeled so it’s kind of like Christmas, seeing what’s inside. Is it one of the many boxes full of shoes? Or maybe a box of my favorite historical romances?

I open it up and immediately suck in a tight breath. Jumping away with frantic steps, I put some distance between me and the box. I eye it wearily, like it’s holding poisonous spiders rather than what’s actually inside.

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