Chapter 1
4th March 2008
I buried my best friend this morning. The dirt feels heavy as it thuds against the casket, each shovelful a dull ache in my chest. I grew up with dogs in Edinburgh, but Biscuit was the first one I truly owned. He’s been with me since I was three, when my mother rescued him as a scruffy, neglected puppy left in an abandoned beach house in Cramond. Now, at seventeen, I feel a piece of the very fabric of my existence leaving this earthly plane. I can’t breathe. I want to scream into the void. This is just heart-wrenching.
“George, are you listening to me?”
My father’s voice cuts through the fog of my grief, sharp and demanding as always. I turn to face him in the living room, his finger jammed in my direction.
“You haven’t been eating for days, and your grades are in the gutter. One more slip-up and you’ll be out of the running for head of the class, you little git.” He steps closer, looming over me. “You’re a Midways, for heaven’s sake! We don’t fail, do you understand?”
I stare at him, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from lashing out. How can he stand there and lecture me about grades when all I can think about is the unbearable reality that my precious companion is forever beyond my reach? The cruel finality of it—the paws, the warmth, the unconditional love, all six feet below the ground—leaves me teetering on the edge of an abyss of sorrow so deep, I fear I may never find my way out of it. Oh, of course, how dare I, to even forget he only cares for himself, or does he ever? The unfairness of it all threatens to boil over.
“I want to go home,” I utter, barely above a whisper. “I want to return to London.” I’m well aware he wouldn’t want to hear anything that has something to do with Scotland, let alone my hometown, Edinburgh.
In an instant, his palm cracks to my face, the sting of it making my eyes water. I refuse to flinch to give him the satisfaction. This is nothing new.
“Home?” he spits. “This is your home now, you ungrateful brat. You’ll shape up and do whatever it takes to keep this family’s legacy intact, or so help me—”
I tune him out, the familiar tirade fading to white noise. As I stand there, cheek burning, I’m certain of one thing: I will never be free of this place until I make them all pay.
“George!” Charlotte, my father’s second wife, rushes down the stairs and runs in my direction. “What did you do, Philip?” She caresses the part of my cheek that he hit and kisses it while crying.
Philip hisses, “All of you are just making that girl as stubborn as she already is. Don’t wait until even you are not allowed to see her, Charlotte. Keep your nose out of this and focus on the baby inside your belly!” He storms out, slamming the door hard enough to nearly knock the painting off the wall.
Father never seems to learn; his forgetfulness is a constant source of pain.
“Ouch,” I wince as Charlotte gently presses the cold compress onto my bruised cheek and swollen lips. I turn my face away, trying to hide the discomfort.
“I’m sorry, hun,” she murmurs, her words trembling.
I take her hand briefly, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Come on, Charlotte, this isn’t the end of the world. You can’t keep crying over every little thing.” She’s been this emotional every time Philip has hurt me lately, which is why I insisted she take a pregnancy test last Sunday. As I suspected, she’s pregnant—hormones can make everything seem more daunting. “May I just remind you it’s not good for the baby?”
But don’t mistake her for the evil stepmother you read about in books or see in movies. Charlotte is far from that. She genuinely cares for me, treats me as her own, and isn’t afraid to scold me when I need it. This helpless, tearful version of her isn’t who she really is.
“I know, okay? I know,” she blinks, tears welling up in her eyes. “But you’re my baby, too,” she adds, and there she goes again, her tears creeping and trickling once more.
“Stop, you look so ugly!” I tease her, trying to lighten the mood.
“Really, huh?” She raises her brows and starts tickling my waist.
“Stop, stop!” I laugh, trying to wriggle free.
Charlotte came into my life when I was ten, not long after my father won custody from my biological mother over a single mistake—she had missed picking me up on time from the studio once because her car broke down. I always felt Philip had something to do with it. I never bought his excuse about making sure I wasn’t there whatsoever; he never showed up at that studio, not even once. Out of the blue, I ended up moving to Midways Manor in England.
A few days later, my father married Charlotte. When we moved to New York, he wanted me to continue with the UK’s educational system, so our family-owned institution, Midways University, offers me online classes instead of attending a local school. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best option we have.
There’s something about this arrangement that doesn’t quite add up, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story than I’m being told. But I’m trying to make the best of it—starting with this ticklish moment with Charlotte. It’s a welcome distraction from the slap I received from my father and the fact that he made it clear there’s no chance of returning to England, not to mention the anguish over Biscuit’s passing.
“Hello, darling, your birthday’s fast approaching. What do you want this year?” my grandmother asks on the other line. I’m seated on my bed, and it’s already six in the evening. Charlotte will be late tonight; she called me shortly before this FaceTime with Grandma to inform me. Philip won’t be coming home either, so I have the house all to myself until she gets home from work. Fashion week is fast approaching. As a model myself, I’m cognizant of how it works. I’ve already cooked her favourite dish to somehow make her feel better.
“I want to go home.”
Every October, I’m asked this question repeatedly by my grandparents, and this is the first time I’ve actually answered it. This year, the question came a little earlier than usual. I used to think there was nothing more I needed. I mean, I’m a Midways. I have everything, but I’ve realized there’s one thing missing: freedom, and I want it.
“Oh, come on, just that?” Grandpa interrupts. “You can go home anytime you want, love,” he chuckles as if it’s a big joke. I can’t blame them, though. They transferred ownership of a house, a sports car, and the jewelry business to me before I could even remember. Vineyard Island in Zeravia and a haute couture house established in the 19th century were also included in my name. They helped me raise funds for my animal shelter and charity shops across Europe and some here in the US. They even provided me with a jet. All these privileges come with being the first girl in the family, but I’ve never taken advantage of them until this juncture.
“Father won’t approve of it,” I choke out, tears beginning to roll down my face. At first, it was just part of my plan to get them to come and fetch me without outright asking, but the tears keep flowing, like a river I can’t control. I haven’t cried for two years, and and it’s as if my eyes are finally releasing all the pent-up emotion, which is both overwhelming and frustrating.
“Shh, love, we’ll swing by to get you. It’s all right,” Papa reassures me. There it is—Philip won’t be able to say no. I’ve been extremely patient with him, but I’m at my limit. He has a talent for pushing me beyond my breaking point, and it’s time for him to face the consequences.
Just as my soul is about to celebrate, Grandma chimes in, “Wait, what was that? What did Philip do to you?”
It’s too late. My makeup has smeared from constantly wiping my tears with my wrist, and my miserable face is fully exposed.
I need to fix this. I don’t want Philip to get into trouble because of my carelessness. I just want to leave his house; I mean no harm. “What is it, Nana?”
“The bruise on your face, love,” Papa answers for Grandma.
“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” I lie, downplaying the injury. “I just had a rough sparring session at the gym earlier and came away with this,” hoping to shift their focus away. They know how much I enjoy hitting the gym, but the truth is, I’m stuck here and have no plans of going out anytime soon—unless it’s to England. But honestly, I don’t want to attend recognition. It’s especially disappointing considering I’m the Head Girl and had hoped to give the certification ceremony speech. I’m feeling despondent about not being a top achiever, missing out on the opportunity to speak, and failing to make my father proud. I can’t bring myself to show up without the title; it feels like, for goodness’ sake, what’s the point?
“Alright,” both of them chorus, sighing in relief.
“Can I ask you guys one more favour?”
“Say it, darling.”
“Don’t tell Father, please.” I want to surprise him. It’s not because I’m afraid of him—that’s ridiculous. I’ve moved past that and I’m ready to defy his rules. I’m not going to comply with them anymore. I’m so done with his tyranny.
