Holy. Crap. Those are the only words that escape my lips as I step foot into the opulent Stirling mansion.
This place is the epitome of opulence, dripping with wealth like a chocolate fondue fountain on steroids. I have to wonder, did the Stirlings strike gold or stumble upon a magical money tree? It's like a dreamy fantasyland straight out of a Nicholas Sparks novel.
But my mom, bless her soul, feels the need to remind me of the Ten Commandments of Stirling Mansion. Okay, maybe not commandments, but her "don't screw this up, Margo" speech. She drills it into my brain like a persistent earworm, playing on repeat until I want to scream. Don't raise your voice, don't ask too many questions, be as polite as a royal butler, and for the love of all things sweet and sugary, always ask for permission. I half-expect the Queen herself to be lurking around the corner, ready to knight me for exceptional table manners.
So, here I am, trotting along behind my mom like a reluctant Chihuahua, as she leads the way through the maze of plush carpets and sparkling chandeliers. We finally land in what I assume is the living room, and boy, is it a living room fit for a Kardashian.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Stirling," my mother politely excuses herself to a stylish blonde woman sitting on the sofa.
Karen Stirling, the queen bee of this palace. If there ever was a walking, talking Vogue cover, it's her. She oozes elegance and grace, like a swan gliding across a mirror-like lake. If she told me she bathed in a tub of champagne and wore couture pajamas, I wouldn't bat an eyelash.
"I'd like to introduce you to my daughter," my mother motions for me to introduce myself. "Margo Antonella."
"Nice to meet you." I extend my hand. And then, the unexpected happens. Mrs. Stirling, instead of the customary handshake, lunges forward and wraps me in a warm hug. Hugs aren't in the Stirling manual! I'm momentarily stunned, but her embrace feels like a cozy blanket on a winter's night. And to top it all off, she gives me a dainty kiss on the cheek, leaving me feeling like Cinderella at the ball.
"Nice to meet you too, darling. I'm glad you've arrived. Your mother has talked a lot about you," I smile shyly, glancing sideways at my mother. "Have you seen the house?"
"Yeah, it's absolutely amazing. Thank you so much for..." I'm cut off by the sound of a thunderous door slam. Instinctively, we all turn our heads to witness the arrival of... wait for it... a brooding, mysterious stranger. Okay, maybe not that mysterious, but he certainly has the brooding part down pat.
A towering young man clad in black jeans, boots, and a jacket strides through the wooden door, exuding an air of toughness. His appearance suggests his affiliation with a motorcycle gang involved in illicit drug trade, while his intense gaze hints at a readiness to harm anyone who crosses his path.
Fear grips me.
Seeing him walk in like that, my mind immediately jumps to the idea that he's a thief who will pull out a gun at any moment, tie us up, and demand the vault password.
Or perhaps he's a hired killer seeking revenge on the Stirlings (rich people often have enemies). But I've seen movies like this before; I know what happens. And we all know that the first ones to die are always the innocent ones.
Oh God, please don't let me die without meeting Harry Styles!
The possibilities swirl in my mind like a tornado, and I fight the urge to dive behind the nearest Louis XIV-style sofa for cover.
But then, I notice something peculiar. Neither my mom nor Mrs. Stirling bat an eyelash. It's as if they're used to this kind of entrance. Maybe brooding strangers are a common occurrence in the Stirling household, like morning coffee or wearing matching socks.
Mrs. Stirling, ever the picture of grace under pressure, excuses herself from our little group and makes her way towards the enigmatic intruder. I watch with bated breath, my heart skipping a beat like a clumsy ballerina, as she approaches him. What will she say? Will she demand answers or offer a cup of tea and a shoulder to lean on?
The air crackles with anticipation as she stands before him, her delicate frame juxtaposed against his rough exterior. And then, with a calm and composed demeanor, she speaks to him in a voice that holds a mix of concern and understanding.
The words are lost to the echoes of the grand room, but the sentiment is crystal clear. There's something more to this mysterious stranger than meets the eye.
***
My room isn't anything special. It resembles the one I had when I lived in Seattle before coming back to Toronto to be with my mom. She's been working as a housekeeper in this mansion for five years, living in a small kitchenette at the back of the house.
I've spent the last seven years in Seattle with my dad, living the life of a typical middle-class teenager: school, friends, and parties. But then my dad lost his job, and our financial situation took a nosedive.
That's why I have to move back in with my mom. But now she lives in her employers' house, and there's no denying that it feels uncomfortable. I can't do whatever I want because it's not "my house," among other limitations.
My mom claims she's gotten used to it, and the money she earns is more than she's ever made in any other job.
I know my life here will be very different from what I'm accustomed to, especially since my stay here comes at a cost. I have to contribute to the household chores as a maid.
But that's okay. In fact, it's more than fair. The Stirlings have no obligation to have me in their home, so the least I can do is contribute something to help my mom with her job.
"Karen is kind," I remark as I unpack some clothes and hang them in the closet.
"It's Mrs. Stirling," my mom corrects me. "You have to get used to it. She's your boss now."
I shrug.
"She seems so gracious and welcoming. Was she like that when you first arrived too?" I ask, recalling how warmly she received me. My mother nods in agreement.
"She's from Brazil" She said.
It's not often that the lady of the house is so lovely and approachable. I had a completely wrong impression of the Stirlings as rich, mean, and snobbish people. But not all wealthy individuals fit that stereotype.
A silence falls in the room, and I remember something I've been itching to ask.
"Who is that boy who came in through the door?" I inquire, referring to the boy I mistook for a killer.
"Maxon, Mr. Stirling's son," she replies, as if unfortunately familiar with him.
Son?! What the heck?!
My mother must understand the reason behind my shocked reaction (!!!), and she probably had the same reaction when she heard what she just revealed.
No one, after looking at that boy for a while, would think he's anything more than a plumber's son, let alone the heir to everything.
"The boy is a real troublemaker," she continues, as if I haven't already figured it out. "He's repeated a grade, run away from home multiple times, and has been caught using drugs... the boy is..."
"A spoiled brat, I bet," I exclaim. "But it doesn't surprise me. With all that, it's hard not to be."
YOU ARE READING
A Bad Boy in my life
Romance"I used to think I knew what being hurt felt like, but then I met him. How I miss the days when he was a stranger to me" *** When Margo is dragged into the Stirling family's house, where her mother works as a maid, she comes face to face with Maxon...
