To clarify:
Camille - 18, 19 soon; Avery - just turned 17; Grayson - 19; Jameson - 18; Xander - 17; Aisha - almost 20; Nash - 22; Alisa - 21; Libby - 18
Fuck canon we do our own thing (I know Nash is older but whatever)
Comments and feedbacks are always appreciated! They motivate authors a lot. Love all of you.
Question: What do you like / dislike most about this story? I have a plan set for the future but I'd love to hear what you think. Any hopes, anything you're excited for, anything you've loved so far, something that's been bugging you... let me know!
C. R. D. - M. L. T.
"Camille." Alisa's tone is sharper than a knife. "What have you done?" She emphasises each word separately and I flinch guiltily.
When I go inside, Alisa calls me to read me the I-can't-do-my-job-if-you-won't-let-me riot act, and doesn't allow me to get a word in.
"In my defense," I start, but honestly? I should have kept quiet, because what follows is a tense stare that makes me wince on the inside. "It's my sister we're talking about."
"I'm here," Libby chimes in. "And I'm fine, Camille. You worry too much." She's been making cupcakes the entire time she and Alisa have been in the kitchen. Alisa confiscated her phone and they've been in here together the whole time.
I watch Alisa look at Libby and picture them in here together. The tight bun with the wild curls. "You know how I am," I say with a tight smile. "I worry all the time." My smile doesn't feel real. Maybe it isn't. But looking at them, some of the peace transports to me and I feel a little less.
After I leave the two, with a tense goodbye between Alisa and I, which seems to promise more retribution to come, I sit down at my computer.
"How bad is it?" I say out loud and cringe at the sound of my rough voice against the blank silence of my room. The answer is more terrifying than ever.
Hawthorne Heiress Keeping Secrets.
What Does Camille Diante Know?
Is The New Heiress A Danger?
I recognise myself in the pictures the paparazzi took more than I thought I would. The girl in the photos is terrifying and full of fury. She looks as arrogant and dangerous as a Hawthorne. Yet I don't recognise myself. In the way I hold myself. My clothes. My hair. I look confident in a way I've never been. My curls are taken care of. I look pretty, which is entirely new to me.
"I suggest," A voice behind me says, "you don't read too much of it. It'll get to your head."
Startled, I turn around and am met with the guy who wears one of those damned suits. Today, it's a forest green.
"Look at you," I say, collecting myself. "It's almost like you're trying to start a new trend, Hawthorne. Isn't that a little too much colour for you?"
He scoffs and comes into my room— which makes me furious, by the way, why does everyone continue to do that?— and sits down on my armchair. My armchair. Like it belongs to him.
"Sure. Make yourself at home," I murmur and he rolls his eyes in a way that is so natural to him that it almost makes me smile.
My room has turned a little more personal ever since I first entered it. There are some of my books Aisha brought me from home. There's a piano, a fucking piano because I once told Alisa that I like to play it. There's pictures of Avery, me and Libby on the wall. There's Mum.
"I overheard you," Grayson says. "In the kitchen. You said you're always worried. Why?" He says it bluntly and so disinterestedly I want to tell him to fuck off. But there's something in his eyes that make me stop. He seems serious about this, like this is a test, and the answer will determine something great.
"I..." How do you say something like this? How do I start? "We grew up with little money. Avery was young, but I noticed it, of course. Our mother took care of us, but she told me to protect my sisters. Always. On the playground. At school. The last time she told me that was before she died. I suppose it's just rooted in me."
This was more personal than I hoped. But how is there a better answer to a question like that? There is none.
"I'm sorry for your loss." Grayson examines my wall with the pictures and nods, like it makes sense. "You're the eldest. You take care of them."
It's relieving, that he doesn't pity me. Pity isn't the same as empathy. He knows grief too. I want to think that my grief is stronger than his. But grief isn't a competition. He leaves, then, and I'm left wondering what the hell I just witnessed.
C. R. D. - M. L. T.
It's evening when Avery stumbles into my room. I've been spending my time here after leaving Aisha's guest room. She's only staying a couple more days. I miss her already.
Avery's cheeks are flushed, an indicator she's spent a lot of time with Jameson, and she has this look in her eyes that means she probably spent said time doing something incredibly dangerous.
"Do I even want to know what you've been doing?" I ask and she grins, pressing a kiss on my cheek and jumping onto my bed.
Avery looks at me with thoughtful eyes and a mischievous smile. "Probably not," and I nod. "You lied to the press." She immediately gets to the point. "What you told them... it was a lie, wasn't it?"
"Of course it was."
"It's hard to tell with you sometimes," Avery comments. "You're not exactly an open book."
I pause, trying to formulate an answer. My back is turned to her, and I breathe shallowly. Pretending I am not affected by it, I turn around. "You're one to say that, Ave." A laugh escapes my lips, but it's as real as my smile, which in this case is not at all. "I feel like we haven't spoken in ages."
In that same moment, I know it's my fault too. My sister is a living and breathing copy of our mother. I am not, although I wish I was. It hasn't mattered to me before, but now that she's dead it could have been something to hold on to. It's the reason I have trouble looking my sister in the eyes.
"I know the way you look at me," Avery says, her voice no longer unbothered. "I see it every day."
I watch her intently.
"Do you know what thats like," Avery asks. "To look in the mirror and be reminded every day of her? You can't look at me. I can't even look at myself."
I shake my head. "Ave..."
She looks me into the eyes, her gaze stern. "Don't, Milly. I know you. You have such a hard time opening up to me, but that doesn't mean I don't see you. You smell like cigarettes again."
I freeze.
"And you've been calling Dean. I'm not stupid. And you're not the only one who's friends with Hawthornes."
That must've been Xander. That little bitch. But that's not the point. She's right. Softly, I say, "You're right. I should've told you. I'm just trying to figure things out."
We're both sitting on the bed now. Her hand reaches for mine and she pulls me closer. I hug her, my darling girl, and she murmurs, "You don't have to do it alone. You don't have to be the only one who cares about others. Let me be there for you." And she says it desperately, like she's reaching for me in the same way she's reached for my band.
I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of her hair. Avery's right. She is so much like Mum that it hurts. But she's my Avery. "Okay," I murmur.
We stay like this, a mess of arms and legs and hair, until she gets up and yawns. "The press is cruel," she exclaims and I scoff. Changing topics like this is normal. It's human. It's us, and I love her.
"Cruel doesn't do it justice." I try to l forget the articles, but that is hardly possible.
"Well, now the whole world believes you're a self-centered bitch with an ego the size of a mountain," Avery says thoughtfully.
I shrug. "I won't try to prove them wrong."