"Elizabeth, I've made my decision, and it's final. You're going to the boarding school by the end of the week, no further discussion."
Her father, Charles Whitmore, CEO of Whitmore & Co., the most prestigious law firm in England, stood at the top of the staircase, glowering down at her like a judge delivering a sentence.
They stared at each other, both fuming, neither willing to back down. Then, without a word, Elizabeth spun on her heel, grabbed her bag, and stormed out the front door. She jumped into the black Ford Fiesta her father had given her for her 17th birthday a year ago and disappeared into the biting cold of the winter evening.
She pulled up in front of her best friend's house and cut the engine. Brittany had been in her life since they were toddlers, and now, nearing adulthood, their bond had only grown stronger.
Without knocking, she walked straight through the front door, they were close like that. On the couch, Brittany's mom was curled up with their dog, watching TV.
"Hey, Mrs. Simons," she called out casually. "Heading up."
Getting only a half-hearted wave from Mrs. Simons, Elizabeth made her way up the stairs. Loud music thumped from behind a closed door, definitely Brittany's room. She chuckled softly, her mood already beginning to lift.
She turned the handle and stepped inside, only to freeze at the sight of Brittany standing in front of the mirror, bare-chested and casually cupping her breasts.
"Oh hey, babes," Brittany said, unfazed, catching Elizabeth's reflection in the mirror. "Didn't know you were crashing tonight. Let me guess, had another run-in with the attorney?"
Elizabeth groaned, flopping onto the bed. "Ugh, you won't believe what he threatened me with this time. Freaking boarding school. In America!"
"What?! We're in our finals, for fuck's sake. What set him off this time?" Brittany demanded, finally turning to face her fully.
Elizabeth dropped onto the bed with a groan, arms flung wide. "I caught my beloved stepmother tangled in the sheets with the pool boy and thought he deserved to know. But, of course, she turned on the waterworks, and suddenly I'm the jealous little liar trying to sabotage their marriage."
She rolled her eyes, but her voice cracked just slightly on the next words. "And the worst part? I think he actually believes her. I think he means it this time, Bri. He's really sending me away."
Brittany's expression shifted, the teasing gone from her eyes.
It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Elizabeth's mother had left when she was barely two, vanishing from their lives without so much as a goodbye. Since then, it had just been her and her dad, at least in theory. In reality, Charles Whitmore had cycled through a revolving door of women, most of whom barely tolerated Elizabeth, let alone cared for her. And he never noticed. Or maybe he just didn't care.
Every time Elizabeth spoke up, every time she tried to protect herself or call them out, she was the problem. The jealous daughter. The troublemaker. The liability.
"I don't get it," she murmured, quieter now. "Why is it so easy for him to take their side every time? I'm his daughter."
There was a long pause before Brittany moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Because he doesn't deserve you. And honestly? Fuck boarding school. We're going to figure this out. Together."
The next morning, Elizabeth made her way home and sighed in relief when she noticed her father's Porsche wasn't in the driveway. At least she wouldn't have to deal with him right away.
Unfortunately, she was still home.
Linda, her stepmother, who was only two years older than her, was already prattling around the house like she owned it. Elizabeth ignored her and started up the stairs, hoping to make it to her room unnoticed.
But Linda's voice floated after her like a poison-tipped arrow.
"By this time next week," she said with a giggle, "you'll be tucked away in some very conservative boarding school all the way in America."
Elizabeth froze.
"I really hope it teaches you that being a brat doesn't always come with immunity," Linda added sweetly. "Actions have consequences, sweetheart."
Elizabeth slowly turned her head, her eyes narrowing. "Funny," she said coolly, "I was just thinking the same thing about married women who sleep with the help." And then continued up the stairs.
The week that followed passed in a blur. Elizabeth buried herself in anything and everything to avoid crossing paths with her father. She left the house early, came home late, and kept her headphones in whenever possible. Part of her hoped that if she gave it time, if she stayed out of his way long enough, he'd cool off. Maybe he'd even forget the whole ridiculous idea.
Elizabeth had just made it halfway down the stairs when she saw him, her father, standing in the foyer with his coat still on, briefcase in one hand and that unreadable expression on his face.
She froze. He didn't.
"Pack your bags," he said flatly. "You're leaving tomorrow morning."
Her heart dropped. "You're serious?"
Charles didn't flinch. "I told you what would happen. Actions have consequences."
She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat.
"Eight AM. Don't be late," he added, then walked past her and disappeared into his office.
Elizabeth didn't say a word as she climbed the stairs. Her legs felt heavy, like each step pulled more weight onto her shoulders.
Pack your bags. You're leaving tomorrow.
The words echoed over and over, louder than the footsteps she couldn't even hear anymore.
She reached her room, slammed the door shut behind her, and collapsed onto her bed. For a few minutes, she just stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe past the growing lump in her throat.
Then she reached for her phone with trembling hands and texted the only person who felt like home.
Elizabeth [6:43 PM]:
Can you come over?
Please.
The reply came almost instantly.
Brittany [6:43 PM]:
On my way.
Twenty minutes later, Brittany walked into the room without knocking, like she always did. She took one look at Elizabeth sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by half-packed bags and crumpled clothes.
"He really said tomorrow?" she asked softly, sinking onto the bed beside her.
Elizabeth nodded, swallowing hard. "Eight a.m. Like I'm catching a damn flight to hell."
Brittany wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in without hesitation. "I'm so sorry, Liz."
And that was all it took.
Elizabeth broke.
Tears welled up and spilled over, her breath hitching as weeks of anger and fear finally cracked open. "I don't even know where I'm going, Bri," she choked out. "He didn't tell me the name. The location. Nothing.Just 'Pack your bags.' Like I'm some problem to ship away."
She clung to Brittany as the tears fell. Sometimes, Elizabeth hated the family she was born into.
Yes, she was the heiress to the Whitmore empire. She'd never wanted for anything material. Designer clothes, elite schools, the best tutors money could buy, all handed to her on a silver platter. But what did any of it matter when love was a luxury no one ever offered?
She often wondered why her mother had abandoned her to the care of a man who barely looked at her, let alone understood her. She was only two when it happened, too young to remember her mother's face, but old enough now to feel the weight of her absence every day.
And now, as if her life wasn't already cold and distant, her stepmother, barely older than her, had managed to convince her father to ship her off to another continent. Hundreds of miles away from the only home she'd ever known. During her final year of high school, no less.
It wasn't punishment. It was exile.
Eventually, Elizabeth pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Her throat was raw, her heart heavy, but the tears had stopped , for now.
She stood, took a breath, and with Brittany's quiet support, began folding clothes into her suitcase again.
There was no escaping it. She was going to America.
But she would never forgive him.