Queen of Hawthorne Prep

Once the door is closed behind me, I pause and allow the tears to slide down my cheeks.

Chapter Fifteen

With my suitcase in hand, I press the doorbell of the Rothchild Mansion. A muffled chime echoes throughout the cavernous space. Only now do I realize that I’ve never stepped foot in Kingsley’s house. He’s always come to me. Either sneaking into my room at night or picking me up for school in his Mustang. I’m unsure what to expect. Even though the house is a monstrosity, I know it’s just the two of them. His sister, Harlow, is at a boarding school in Europe. And his mom…

I have no idea where she is. Kingsley doesn’t talk about her and the one time I asked, he quickly shut down the conversation and changed the subject.

The front door swings open, and I’m surprised to find the older woman from the beach house. When I remain silent, unsure what to say, she raises her brows in askance. Does she recognize me from that morning months ago when she threatened to call the police unless I vacated the property?

I really hope not.

“Can I help you, young lady?” she snaps, unfriendliness bleeding through every syllable. This is exactly the demeanor I remember.

I wince and force myself to say, “Um, yes. I—”

Her narrowed gaze falls to the black suitcase parked beside me. “I suppose you’re Summer Hawthorne. I was told to prepare a room for your arrival.”

She makes it sound like I’m here for a holiday when in actuality, I’m nothing more than a glorified prisoner.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” she barks when I remain silent, “grab your bag and I’ll show you to your accommodations.”

Holy crap. If rudeness had a face, the dour one before me would be it.

I glance longingly over my shoulder, tempted to make a run for it, but I get the feeling this woman would give chase, tackling me to the ground before dragging me inside.

My fingers tremble as they wrap around the handle of my suitcase before hauling it over the threshold. Once inside the foyer, my gaze travels around the spacious interior. No matter how fancy our house is, this is a hundred times more so.

A sparkling crystal chandelier drips from the vaulted ceiling. It looks more like an impressive work of art rather than a utilitarian piece that gives off light. My gaze skitters to the intricate wrought iron railing that wraps around the second-floor gallery, giving the area an open and airy feel.

The older woman clears her throat, drawing my distracted attention to her.

“Sorry,” I mumble before following her up the sweeping staircase. What has become clear in the two minutes I’ve been here is that Rothchild Mansion is more museum than house. This place is easily fifteen thousand square feet of sprawling, perfectly decorated space. While it’s spectacular, it’s not exactly what one would call homey. There’s a definite chill to the air mimicked by its owner. Or maybe vice versa.

Landscapes in gold leaf frames are carefully arranged on the wall. I glance at a few as I drag my suitcase up the stairs. I’m more into astronomy that art history, but I’d stake money on these being original works that cost a small fortune.

Kingsley told me that his family owns a chain of stores named Rothchild’s. Like fifty of them. The flagship is in Hawthorne, but the rest are scattered throughout the Midwest.

It’s glaringly apparent that the Rothchilds don’t lack for wealth, which means that extracting a pound of flesh from my family is the driving force behind this lawsuit. Maybe my great-great-grandfather murdered Gerald Rothchild eighty years ago, but to go to these lengths to settle almost a century old score seems diabolical.

I’m huffing and puffing by the time we reach the second-floor landing. It takes a moment to catch my breath before scurrying after the older woman as she turns to the left, walking with military precision past numerous doors. My shoes sink into the plush rugs that are strategically placed over the long stretch of dark hardwoods. I don’t realize that one wheel on the suitcase is wonky until I drag it for what feels like a block. Finally, she stops in front of a closed door and waits for me to catch up.

Her hand wraps around the brushed nickel hardware. “This will be your room for the duration of your stay.”

That doesn’t sound ominous at all.

I nod as she thrusts open the door and steps over the threshold. My eyes widen as they rove over the interior. Again, I’m awed by the opulence. The ceiling is ridiculously high, soaring at least twenty feet. If the room weren’t so palatial, the king-sized bed with its tufted headboard trimmed with a silver-colored wood would overwhelm the space. The wall behind it is tiled in square mirrors set in a diagonal pattern. Matching silver nightstands flank the bed. A thick white carpet covers a portion of the marble floor with tall windows that stretch from floor-to-ceiling. During the day, I can only imagine the sunlight that must pour in.