Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Not a parent in sight, which basically said everything. Children who sat in front of a camera, earning millions of dollars and no discipline. Parents either didn’t care, enjoyed the money their children were making or had just given up on them. And that resulted in spoiled brats who thought that money equaled power, deciding that they no longer needed to live by any kind of rules. It sickened me. Worried me, what awaited the coming generations.
But I’d been featured in an Instagram story which meant I’d gotten approximately ten thousand new followers just since I’d gotten home. I’d received countless calls and emails from rich kids wanting to look like their latest idol and industry people wanting the connection.
Wren, the YouTube fanatic that she was, had even called me, demanding to know what she was really like in person. She was delighted to hear she was a spoiled bitch. I’d already apologized to Zoe for sending her details to the girl, who was in dire need of a good publicist.
Zoe was not perturbed; she could handle anything, after all. She could run the fucking country if she so wished.
I was rather satisfied, but also totally exhausted. My body was protesting what I’d put it through. The little sleep. The overdosing on caffeine, sugar, alcohol. The only reason I hadn’t contracted scurvy was because this was L.A., and there was an opportunity for a green juice and a kale salad on every corner and on every set.
Needless to say, my father’s call was welcome. Our daily calls had sorely suffered since my attack, since I knew he’d hear the shake to my voice, know something was wrong.
“Father,” I greeted. “Why is it that the youth of today are spoiled assholes?”
Voldemort watched me from his perch on the window. There was judgement in his eyes. But then again, there was always judgement in his eyes. He hated me. He’d hated me since I adopted him from the shelter three years ago. I’d come home, and he’d just stared. No cute meowing, no rubbing against my legs or perching on my lap when I sat on the sofa. He wouldn’t come near me. Except just as I was drifting off to sleep. Then he’d jump on the end of my bed, sleeping there until he decided it was time for me to wake up, which was when he’d move up on the bed to stand on my chest so I’d wake up to his glare.
Boy, did I love that little asshole.
My father chuckled. “There have been spoiled brats roaming the earth for centuries, they’ve just gotten more publicity these days,” he replied.
I grinned, sipping my wine and opening my laptop. “I just count myself lucky I was raised right.”
“Nah, you’re naturally who you are, I just won the lottery.”
My eyes welled up ever so slightly at the tenderness in my father’s words. A pang of sadness and longing came over me. I missed him.
“How you doing, sweetie?” Dad asked.
There was no worry in his voice because he didn’t know about what happened three weeks ago. My father would’ve dropped everything to come to L.A. if he knew what had happened to me. What had almost happened. He also would’ve tried his level best to find out where my attacker was and finish the job that Karson had started.
My father was the kindest person I knew. He’d also been a semi-professional boxer until my mom got pregnant with me, and he switched to a job that was a lot steadier, paid consistently and didn’t promise brain injuries that would follow him in to old age. Despite the fact that he was approaching sixty, he was in great shape. He still boxed three times a week and would happily spend the rest of his life in jail if it meant he got to punish the man who’d hurt his daughter.
“I’m doing great, dad,” I replied, clicking through dresses, trying to find the perfect one for a date with the man I’d originally thought was going to kill me.
Black was a safe bet, right?
Dolce and Gabbana would be perfect. Or Calvin Klein. Realistically, if I wanted to be a functioning adult with enough money for food for the rest of the month, I would be better suited at Zara. But this was a man who appreciated and understood nice things. Expensive things. I needed to put my best, Jimmy Choo clad foot forward.
Plus, this wasn’t for him. It was for me. It was always for me. I never dressed for men, I dressed for my reflection when I passed store windows.
“Tell me the truth, Stella,” Dad commanded, worry edging his voice. “Do you need money? I can send you money.”
I sighed. Since I’d moved to L.A., he’d ask me if I needed money at least once a week. My father was a stern, strong willed, and very financially sensible man. I was not coddled growing up; I’d been expected to get a job when I was sixteen, to earn my own money, and was also expected to have a healthy appreciation for manual labor. My father did not raise a spoiled princess. And I wasn’t spoiled. Everything I had, I’d worked for. None of my champagne tastes came from my father; he was strictly a Bud Light man and bought his clothes in value packs from Walmart. He didn’t understand my lifestyle, and he suffered a lot of strife over my refusal to take a dime from him.