Page 8 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
And if so, will I ever be happy?
And does my happiness even matter in the grand scheme of things?
I don’t have the answers to these questions, questions I’ve been able to ignore for quite some time now, so instead, I focus on John and force myself to forget the unforgiving glare of the handsome stranger next door.
He sits up slowly, eyeing my legs and cleavage before settling on the plate in my hand. “You made breakfast again?” he asks, his voice eager.
“Sure did.” I give another sweet grin, hoping that I look like every misogynistic man’s wet dream—a woman that looks like a Victoria’s Secret angel, cooks like Martha Stewart and spreads her legs quicker than a lady working a street corner.
Yep.
Guys are great, aren’t they?
And John is the king of them all.
Last week, he asked me to make him a sandwich. I don’t cook. Not even sandwiches. I’ve burnt water at least a dozen times in the past month. But at least he didn’t address me as “woman,” like one of the last guys did.
So, I cut my losses and made him a darn sandwich.
It was awful.
Instead of giving it to him, I had Subway delivered. Filthy rich and distantly related to a Rothschild, John never had Subway, nor had he heard of Subway. Naturally, I took credit for the sandwich, too.
When I place the tray beside him, he pats the bed and says, “Come join me.”
Giving him a teasing look, I shake my head and walk towards his bathroom. Before I reach the doorway, I turn back at him, and just as I suspected, he’s staring at me, a distinct expression of longing in his eyes.
Making sure his eyes remain riveted on me, I unbutton the sole button and allow the fabric to slide slowly off of my shoulders in a teasing movement. With one final wink, I shut the door, cutting off his view of my bare body.
And that is how you gold dig.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.
But my problem has never been getting men. It’s always been reeling them in.
A quick shower later, and I’m heading towards China Town, where my baby sister lives. From the decaying paint to the fishy odor throughout the halls, the building is run down and dilapidated, but it’s an upgrade from where we grew up.
When Social Services took Mina away, I was only eighteen. I was too young to get her back, and my incubation pod, who I refuse to address as anything more than the woman who birthed me, didn’t bother trying.
Now, four years later, I am twenty-two years old, am on my last year at Wilton, and still haven’t gotten my little sister back. As much as I’ve accomplished by even getting into Wilton, I suspect I’ll always feel like a failure. At least until I get custody of Mina.
At twelve years old, it feels like Mina and her childhood is wasting away in this dump of a place. She needs to be around someone who cares about her, someone who loves her. And no matter what her case worker says, that’s with me—not here, at this dreadful place.
The receptionist grins at me when I sign in. I return it, though it’s forced. Playing nice has never been my strong suit. I’ve always found it to be a waste of time, and most of the time, people aren’t genuine anyway. But the smile I paste on my face is convincing, because I can’t afford to leave a bad impression on someone who possesses the power to revoke my time with Mina.
She matters more to me than anything or anyone else.
And when Mina sees me and smiles, I give the first genuine smile I’ve given since I saw her last week. With red hair, innocent green eyes, and a bright smile, Mina is the spitting image of me ten years ago. The only difference is her inability to walk.
That only seems to be a problem to her case worker, Erica. We were fine before they ever visited our place and deemed it unfit to raise a handicapped minor. I had taken care of Mina, and she was loved and cherished, healthy and eating, happy and laughing.
Where was Erica when I was sleeping on the piss-stained carpet most nights? Where was Erica when I was scavenging through empty cabinets for food to eat? Where was Erica when I hadn’t a toothbrush to clean my teeth or shampoo to wash my hair?
Nowhere.
