There's a special kind of hell reserved for moments like these. The kind of hell where you're dropped into an unfamiliar world, with unfamiliar people, and you have to pretend like you're perfectly okay when, really, you're about five seconds away from bolting in the opposite direction.
Welcome to my life. The life of Heaven Astrid Holden, former daughter of a single mom and now… well, daughter of the man who abandoned me when I was seven. Yeah, it's not the kind of Cinderella story I'd been hoping for.
The car pulls up to the mansion, and I blink, wondering if this is some sort of mistake. It looks like the kind of house that could be featured on some reality TV show for the ridiculously rich and stupid. Marble columns, a circular driveway, and a front lawn that's manicured to the point of obsession. My suitcase is sitting in the backseat, mocking me with its stupid bright purple color. It doesn't belong here, and neither do I.
"Home sweet home," the driver says, glancing at me through the rearview mirror like he's handing me over to my doom.
"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "Sweet."
Stepping out of the car, I get my first real look at the mansion that I'm apparently going to be living in. It's massive. Like, 'could fit ten of my old houses in it' massive.
And standing in front of it, waiting for me like some awkward family reunion from a soap opera, is my father. Richard Holden, in the flesh. He's as tall and imposing as I remember, standing at around six feet two with a broad-shouldered frame that commands attention.
His once jet-black hair is now streaked with gray, cut neatly in a style that screams business mogul. His face is stern, with a strong jawline and deep-set brown eyes that have always been more calculating than warm. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced now, a testament to years of running a company and living a life where emotions are a luxury he can't afford.
Next to him is Margaret. The replacement wife. She stands at about five foot six, with a slender build and the kind of beauty that comes from hours at a high-end salon. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, perfectly styled without a strand out of place.
Her eyes are a striking hazel, the kind that would look friendly if it weren't for the forced smile she's wearing. Her makeup is immaculate, her clothes expensive and understated—a cream-colored blouse tucked into a designer skirt, paired with heels that could probably pay someone's rent. She waves at me with a practiced grace, as if I'm some distant relative visiting for the holidays rather than her husband's estranged daughter.
And behind them are their two kids—my half-brother and step-sister, Emily and Josh.
Emily, at first glance, is a smaller version of Margaret, with the same blonde hair but with a hint of a natural wave that suggests she's not as meticulous about her appearance yet. She looks to be about sixteen, dressed in a pastel-colored cardigan over a simple dress that makes her seem younger than her age.
Her hazel eyes are wide and curious, darting between me and her parents like she's trying to gauge the situation. There's a softness to her expression, a kind of timid politeness that tells me she's the type to follow rules and avoid conflict at all costs.
Josh, on the other hand, is a blend of both his parents. He's around five years old, with a mop of light brown hair that carries Margaret's golden undertone but is as unruly and untamed as Richard's once was. His eyes are a sharp hazel, a perfect mix of Margaret's striking gaze and Richard's intensity.
They carry a spark of curiosity and a hint of the mischief that only kids his age seem to master effortlessly. His facial features are a balanced mix—Margaret's delicate nose and Richard's strong jawline. He's dressed in a casual t-shirt with a superhero logo and a pair of jeans, sneakers scuffed from what I imagine is a lot of running around and climbing things he probably shouldn't be climbing.
He fidgets as he stands there, clearly not as interested in this "family reunion" as the rest of them, his gaze flickering to the driveway like he's already planning his escape.
"Heaven," my dad says, his voice stiff. He looks like he doesn't know whether to hug me or shake my hand.
"Dad," I say back, equally stiff. Because what else am I supposed to say? 'Hey, thanks for walking out on me when I was seven, and now that Mom's dead, I'm just thrilled to be here'?
Margaret steps forward with a smile that's so plastic it might actually crack if she tries too hard. "We're so happy to have you here, Heaven. I know this must be difficult, but we're going to do everything we can to make you feel at home."
Oh, so we're playing that game. The 'let's pretend this isn't super awkward and horrible' game. I'm not interested, but hey, if they want to keep pretending, who am I to stop them?
"Thanks," I mumble, grabbing my suitcase and hauling it out of the car. I don't need help from them. I've been doing fine on my own for the last nine years, and I'm not about to start relying on them now.
Inside the mansion, everything is just as cold and impersonal as I imagined. Marble floors, high ceilings, art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire school. It's all just so… fake. Like a magazine spread that someone threw together to make it look like a family actually lives here.
Margaret shows me to my room, which is about the size of my old apartment. The bed is king-sized, covered in fluffy white pillows, and there's a walk-in closet that's already been filled with clothes I didn't ask for. It's all so overwhelming that I just stand there, staring at it like I'm in a museum.
"If there's anything you need, just let me know," Margaret says, hovering in the doorway like she's afraid to leave me alone with my thoughts.
I plaster on a smile. "I'm fine."
She hesitates for a moment, then nods and leaves. The moment she's gone, I drop onto the bed, letting out a long breath. I can do this. I can survive this place. I just have to keep my head down, stay out of their way, and count down the days until I turn twenty and can finally claim what's mine.
Because while Richard Holden may be filthy rich, my mother wasn't exactly struggling either. She'd made a name for herself in the culinary world, and now her business, her empire, was set to be mine. That's right—Heaven Astrid Holden is not just some grieving teenager who got stuck with her absentee father. I'm the future owner of my mother's multi-million-dollar company. And while I may not have the mansion or the marble floors, I've got enough money coming my way that I'll never have to depend on Richard Holden or anyone else ever again.
---
Dinner that evening is like a scene straight out of a movie—a painfully awkward one. The dining room is grand and tastefully decorated, the table laid out with expensive china and crystal glasses. Margaret's chatter fills the silence, and I'm barely paying attention. The food looks like something you'd find at a five-star restaurant—perfectly plated, artistically arranged—but I can't bring myself to enjoy it.
Margaret is trying her best. She's asking questions about school, my hobbies, even about my mother, as if she has any idea what it was like to live with her. I nod and smile politely, but there's a wall between us that I'm not ready to break down.
My father is quiet, occasionally glancing at me like he wants to say something but doesn't know where to start. It's weird, being here with him. He was always more of a shadow than a real presence in my life. A ghost who walked out when things got tough.
Margaret notices my barely touched plate and her face tightens with concern. "You didn't eat much, Heaven. Are you sure you're not hungry?"
I glance at the food again, barely hiding my grimace. "I'm fine. Just… not in the mood."
Her smile falters. "If there's something else you'd prefer, I can have the chef whip it up. Anything you want."
I snort. "The chef, huh? You guys really go all out, don't you?"
My father gives me a warning look, but I ignore it.
Margaret forces another smile. "We just want you to feel at home."
I drop my fork onto the plate with a loud clatter. "This isn't home."
Her smile falters completely now, and my father clears his throat, like he's about to say something to smooth things over, but I'm already done with this conversation.
"I'll just cook for myself," I say, pushing my chair back and standing up. "Thanks for dinner."
Without waiting for a response, I head toward the kitchen. The place is massive, filled with gleaming appliances and countertops that look like they've never seen a single spill or stain. It feels so sterile—so not like the kitchen I used to cook in with my mom.
I open the fridge, pulling out ingredients by instinct. Onions, tomatoes, garlic—things I'd cooked with a hundred times before. The smell of freshly cut garlic hits my nose, and for a second, I'm back in my mom's kitchen, the two of us side by side, laughing and talking about everything and nothing as we cooked together.
But the memory is short-lived, and I push it away as I focus on the task at hand. The steady rhythm of chopping vegetables, the sizzle of onions in a hot pan, the warm, comforting smell of sauce bubbling on the stove—it's all so familiar, so grounding. It reminds me that no matter where I am or who I'm with, this is something I can control. This is something that belongs to me.
And in this strange, foreign house, that's exactly what I need.