The Girl in the Attic

The Tenth Fucking Time

Y/n's POV:

Seventeen years old and I'm staring at another goddamn moving truck.

Number ten. The tenth house in six years. At this point, I should just start living out of suitcases and save myself the trouble of unpacking. But no - Dad insists on buying these massive, soulless mansions in every city we land in, like he's collecting properties in a game of Monopoly. This time? He couldn't resist purchasing half the undeveloped land in this bougie suburb to build country clubs.

Country clubs. Because that's exactly what screams "we're relatable, normal people."

I leaned against the doorframe of what would become my new bedroom, watching the movers haul in furniture that cost more than most people's cars. The room was huge - floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet bigger than my last bedroom, an en-suite bathroom with a tub that could fit four people. It was beautiful in that cold, sterile, interior-designer kind of way.

And I fucking hated it.

Not because it wasn't nice. It was gorgeous. But because I knew exactly what it meant: another year of rattling around in an empty house, eating dinner alone while Dad worked late in whatever city he'd flown to that week. Another year of being the rich girl everyone either wanted to use or wanted to fuck - or both.

I pulled my hair up into a messy bun, catching my reflection in one of the massive mirrors the movers had just propped against the wall. Dark dirty-blonde hair that fell in waves when I let it down, blue-green eyes that people always commented on, a face full of freckles I'd finally learned to love instead of hide. I had my mom's eyes, apparently. Not that I'd ever know - she died giving birth to me, so I've been motherless since minute one of my existence.

Thanks for the genetic contribution and the lifetime of therapy I'll probably need, Mom.

I traced the double-headed snake tattoo on my thigh absently, my fingers running over the butterflies that surrounded it. I'd gotten it six months ago at my last school, right before everything went to shit. Dad didn't care - he just signed the papers without thinking twice. That was right before I had to leave because I'd fucked too many of the wrong people and gained a reputation that even my dad's money couldn't smooth over.

Nymphomania. That's what the therapist called it when Dad finally noticed I was having sex with half my grade. "Strong, persistent sexual urges that interfere with daily life."

I called it coping with crippling loneliness and daddy issues, but sure, let's go with the clinical term.

The thing is, I wasn't ashamed. Not really. Sex felt good. It made me feel wanted, even if just for a night. It filled the silence in my head, the empty spaces in my chest. And I was good at it - confident, uninhibited, the kind of girl who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it.

But it also got me labeled. Slut. Whore. Easy.

So here I was. Again. New city, new school, new chance to figure out who the fuck Y/n Du Pont actually was when she wasn't trying to be someone else.

I'd tried everything over the years. Preppy girl with the perfect ponytail and pastel cardigans. Loner kid who ate lunch in the library. Popular queen bee who had a posse, and threw parties every weekend. Artsy weird girl who wore all black and wrote depressing poetry.

None of it fit. None of it was me.

This time, I decided, I was going to be authentic. Raw. Unfiltered. If people didn't like it, they could fuck right off. I was done performing.

I walked over to my suitcase and pulled out the outfit I'd already planned for tomorrow: a light blue crop top with a dark blue hibiscus print that showed just enough skin to be interesting without trying too hard, white jean shorts that hugged my ass and showed off my thigh tattoo, and my favorite combat boots. Casual. Confident. Hot, but like I wasn't trying.