Hating The Hot Guy

Lena.

I refilled the champagne glasses carefully, weaving through clusters of glittering guests who looked through me rather than at me. The black dress I wore, the same one I'd worn to every family event for the past three years had a small tear at the hem that no one had noticed. No one ever noticed.

"More champagne here," a woman in diamonds called out, snapping her fingers without bothering to look at my face.

I moved to her, my footsteps silent on the marble floor of the Carter mansion's ballroom. Cassie's engagement party was in full swing, two hundred guests celebrating my stepsister's upcoming marriage to Liam Whitley, heir to a pharmaceutical fortune. A string quartet played in the corner. The air smelled of expensive perfume and imported flowers.

I belonged to none of it.

But in exactly seven days, none of this would matter anymore.

Seven days until I had enough money saved. Seven days until my interview at the marketing firm in Boston. Seven days until I could disappear from this house and never look back.

I touched the envelope hidden in my bra-my mother's death certificate, the one document I would need to access the small trust fund she had left me. The lawyer's appointment was scheduled for Monday morning. After three years of hiding money in my mattress, working secret jobs Bridget didn't know about, I finally had enough for a security deposit and first month's rent on a tiny studio apartment five hours away.

Freedom was seven days away.

"The hors d'oeuvres are running low on the west table." Bridget's sharp voice cut through my thoughts. My stepmother appeared at my elbow, her perfectly painted lips pressed into a thin line. "Were you planning to let our guests starve?"

"I'll refill them now," I said quietly.

"You should have done it ten minutes ago." Her manicured nails dug into my arm. "Must I do everything myself? Go. And try not to look so pathetic. You're embarrassing us."

Just seven more days, I reminded myself. Seven more days of this, then I'd never have to hear her voice again.

I hurried toward the kitchen, my cheeks burning. Behind me, I heard Bridget's laugh as she greeted another guest. The transformation was instant, like flipping a switch.

In the kitchen, I loaded canapés onto a silver tray, my hands moving automatically. The catering staff gave me sympathetic looks but said nothing. They knew better than to interfere in family matters.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it quickly, it as a text from Landon, my manager at the coffee shop where I worked early mornings before anyone in this house woke up.

"Your last paycheck is ready. $340. That puts you at your goal, right?"

My heart soared. I didn't need to wait seven more days. I had enough now. I could leave tomorrow if I wanted to.

I typed back quickly: "Yes. Thank you for everything."

"Good luck in Boston. You deserve better than this."

I deleted the conversation and pocketed my phone, my hands shaking with suppressed excitement. Tomorrow. I could leave tomorrow, right after the lawyer's appointment. I had already packed a small bag and hidden it in the garden shed. I had bus tickets purchased under a fake name. I had...

"Lena!" Cassie's voice shattered my planning. "Come here for a second."

I returned to the ballroom, a tray balanced in my hands. Cassie stood at the center of a group of her friends, her engagement ring catching the light with every dramatic gesture. She looked beautiful in her rose-gold gown, her blonde hair swept into an elegant updo, her laugh was musical and confident.

Everything I wasn't. Everything I had stopped trying to be.

"I just wanted to introduce you to everyone," Cassie said sweetly as I approached. "This is my stepsister, Lena. She's been so helpful tonight, playing servant." She leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "She really commits to the role, doesn't she?"

Her friends tittered. I stood frozen, the familiar burn of humiliation spreading through my chest.

Tomorrow, I reminded myself. Just get through tonight.

"Actually, I think she enjoys it," one of them said. "Some people just know their place."

Cassie reached for a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She turned back to me, smiling. "Oh, how clumsy of me!"

The red wine hit my dress in a splash of burgundy, soaking through the fabric. The wine was cold against my skin, and for a moment, I felt the envelope in my bra getting damp. Panic shot through me, if the death certificate was ruined, I would have to order another one, which would take weeks.

I set down the tray with shaking hands and hurried toward the bathroom, Cassie's laughter following me down the hall. In the bathroom, I carefully extracted the envelope. The certificate was fine, protected by the envelope's thick paper. Relief flooded through me.

I looked at my reflection: wine-stained, exhausted, invisible. Tomorrow, this version of Lena Carter would cease to exist.