The moving truck had left three hours ago, and I was still staring at the boxes stacked in what was supposed to be my new bedroom. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the California sun painted everything in shades of gold that felt nothing like home. Nothing like the cramped apartment in Chicago where Mom and I had spent the last ten years scraping by. Now we were living in a mansion in Beverly Hills. Because Mom had married Richard Cross a man so wealthy he probably used hundred-dollar bills as napkins-and apparently, fairy tales do come true. Just not the kind I'd ever imagined.