The glow of the plasma television flickered in the pools of my eyes. The room was dark, and the sound was muted. I watched as the news reporters told me what I already knew. Robert Moore, CEO and Founder of Moore Corporations, was pronounced dead.
To the rest of the world, Robert Moore was a multi-billionaire who owned one of the largest entrepreneurial corporations in the world. To me, he was just Dad.
For as long as I could remember, it had just been Dad and me. My mother died in a car accident before I could walk, so my father had to raise me entirely on his own. And although most high ranking business men become consumed by their work, my father always made sure he had time for me.
I was Daddy's Little Girl. He was my best friend, and I was his. Now, he was gone. A heart-attack had taken the most important person in my life and I was never getting him back.
I would have given up everything I had to get him back. But even all the money and riches in the world can't resurrect the dead.
And so, I became frustrated, lost, and angry. A deep, dark depression came over me as I left the hospital where he passed last night. As soon as I got back to our New York City penthouse flat, I crawled into his office, snagged his favorite aged whiskey, and drank until the pain in my chest went away.
Now, the morning after, I was still angry, still in pain, and still alone.
What was going to happen now? How was my life going to change? How was I going to live without him in my life?
I contemplated these questions as I hung over the toilet seat. The strong alcohol I had consumed and the sickening reality of my life caused me to regurgitate over and over again.
I finally pulled myself together when my blackberry rang. Ever since word had gotten out about my father, I had been screening my calls. I wasn't in the mood to deal with their pity. I could hear them all saying "aw you poor little rich girl." At this point, after wasting my morning with news channels and toilet seats, I was too mentally and physically exhausted to give a shit anymore.
"Hullo?" I breathed into the mouthpiece, wiping my mouth.
"Hi, is this Samantha Lillian Moore?"
There was nothing more in this world that I hated more than my full name. It sounded like some low class, imitation furniture store. That's why everybody who knew me only referred to me as Sammy.
"This is she," I groaned, burping slightly under my breath. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Tina Woods. I've been assigned to be your social worker through all of this."
I sat up, and scratched my scalp. "I didn't ask for one . . . and I don't need one."
"Samantha, I know this is a very hard time for you," she replied, in a calm, sympathetic voice that made me roll my eyes. "But I can help you if you let me. If you let us."
I shook my head. This was not happening. I didn't need anybody but my dad.
"Exactly who is us?"
"Well, me, of course, and your hired legal aid, Jim Caulfield," she crackled into the phone.
"Okay, let me set this straight with you, Tina," I sneered, emphasizing on her name. "Are you listening, Tina?"
She paused, then answered in a delicate tone. "Yes."
"I don't need your help. What I need is a mud bath, a deep tissue massage, and a sea weed facial. Now, seeing as you are not qualified for either of those services, I suggest that you leave me the hell alone," I firmly snapped. "Thank you and goodbye."
I clicked my phone off, threw it across the floor, and groaned as I fell back onto the cold, bathroom floor. From there, I proceeded to cry, something I hadn't done since Melina Perkins wore the same Gucci dress as me to Elton John's Benefit Concert in December of 2009.
My world was crumbling to pieces, and my father wasn't there to pick the pieces up. I needed him now more than ever. I missed everything about him; the way his coffee smelled in the morning, the swinging jazz music he'd play through the whole apartment, the way his famous spaghetti and meatballs tasted.
Throughout the day, the buzzer kept ringing. I assumed that it was one flower delivery after another from my friends who didn't actually give a shit. People with money don't care about other people with money. You can buy as many Hermes scarves as you want, but you'll still be lonely at the end of the day, so you turn to your fake friends, which at least does a sufficient job of filling the loneliness that rests in your soul.
That's exactly why my father was my only true friend. It wasn't a matter of being rich and lonely; it was a matter of actually caring for one another.
I spent my afternoon, laying around, eating spaghetti-o's, and going through my father's old belongings. Every item I picked up -- his silk designer ties and cuff links, his old photographs of him from the sixties as a poor jersey boy, his stale Cuban cigar, his favorite autographed Sherlock Holmes novel, his Prada briefcase, his white gold fountain pen -- brought tears to my eyes. How he could be so close one moment and then so far the next baffled me. This whole situation didn't feel real. I felt like he would walk through the door at any minute from a long day at work.
He never did.
The buzzer rang again around three in the afternoon. I didn't answer it. So it buzzed again, and again, and again. Obviously, this delivery guy was more persistent than the others. I didn't ask who it was, I just pressed the green button for access. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I got up from the couch with a blanket wrapped around myself, and walked towards the door. I hesitated to answer, then stepped back and leaned against the wall.
"Just leave it in the hallway," I screamed through the door.
"What?" The man asked.
"Leave it in the hallway!"
"I don't think I understand," the person on the other side of the door called. This time it was a woman. "Samantha, can I please come in?"
I crinkled my eyebrows, wrapped the blanket around me tighter, and got up to the door. I looked through the peephole and saw a man and a woman dressed professionally. I rolled my eyes and opened the door.
"Tina, right?" I asked, widening my eyes at the woman who I assumed was the social worker who had called earlier.
She had light brown hair that was pulled tightly back into a proper bun. Her skin was pasty from the lack of sun exposure, and her green eyes were rimmed with liner. She smiled brightly, exposing white yet slightly crooked teeth.
She extended her hand. "So nice to finally meet you in person, Samantha."
I glared at her. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."
Her smile quickly faded, she pulled back her hand and lowered her eyes. "You did . . . but that doesn't mean I have to listen."
I crossed my arms, then turned my attention to the man in the suit. He had slight stubble, uncombed blonde hair, thick rimmed glasses, and an oversized nose that any plastic surgeon would love to take a whack at. His suit was poorly tailor, bulging at the wrong places, and his cheap, mass produced tie was loose and wrinkled.
"Who's the geek in the suit?"
"Jim Caulfield, nice to meet you," he offered me his hand. Sneaking a peek at Tina, I ungratefully shook it.
"May we come in for a moment?" Tina asked, the pitch of her voice raising. She tried to peer over my shoulder into the flat, but I moved to block her view.
"Neither of you have business here," I replied firmly, channeling my father. "I suggest you both leave before I call the cops for trespassing."
Jim let out a cackle. "That won't do anything. We work for the state."
"This is our job, now . . ." Tina's voice grew harsh. "I've dealt with a lot of brats before, so don't think you're so tough. We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. The more you fight against us, the more you will lose. Your pick."
She stared into my eyes without flinching, holding on until I cracked. I stepped aside, and let them in.
Tina tipped toe around the mess I had left while Jim just charged in like a trooper. Jim just took the seat on our french imported couch, which Tina marched around. I watched as she rummaged through the luna bar wrappers, the tissues, the cans and bowls of spaghetti-o's I had left in the living room. She finally came across the empty bottle of whiskey.
"That would explain it," she muttered to herself, as she scanned the label. "Samantha?" She cooed.
I grunted, and added a tone. "Yeah?"
"If I see anymore of this behavior," she held up the bottle, "I will personally send you to rehabilitation."
I scoffed. "Are you fucking serious? It was one bottle. Lighten up," I gritted, flopping onto the couch next to Jim.
Her face blew up, and her pasty skin grew tomato red. "You're only seventeen! Any alcohol consumption is absolutely prohibited."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I mumbled, crossing my arms. Tina looked like she was going to explode, but she restrained herself.
I knew I should have eased up on the attitude, but quite frankly I didn't want to deal with this. Just because I was going to have to didn't mean I was going to be happy about it.
She sighed, and collapsed onto the leather chair in the corner. "Look, Samantha --"
"Stop calling me that," I snapped, then lowered my voice. "Call me Sammy."
"Okay . . . Sammy, I know this is hard. But you can't destroy your life like this. Turning to alcohol is not the answer. We're here to help you through this, because you shouldn't have to go through this along."
She looked directly at me, hoping to break through to me. I could only look away.
"Thanks. But the thing is, I have a hard time believing that you or the suit has any idea what I'm going through," I murmured, tears welling in my eyes. "You didn't lose your father. I did."
She paused. "You're right. But I'm going to try."
I bit down on my bottom lip. "Okay . . ."
"Samantha . . . I mean Sammy, I promise I'm going to be there for you, every step of the way. Starting now." I crinkled my nose at her. "We have some more bad news. It's a lot to take in at once, but that's why I'm here, Sammy. I'm going make sure it's as easy on you as possible. I'll let Jim tell you."
I turned to face him. "What's going on?"
"Well, I have your father's will," he started, opening up his briefcase and fishing through this. "We were going to have you wait and go to the will reading, but Tina thought it was better for us to tell you right away, seeing how prolonging the transition would only make it harder."
My eyes widened, and I felt nauseous again. "Oh shit, please don't tell me I'm poor!"
Jim let out a nervous, uncomfortable laugh. "No. Your father left everything to you. $4.5 billion, all of his real estate and belongings, and his enterprise."
I sighed with relief. Not only was I set for life, but I got to keep everything that reminded me of him. So he would always be with me.
"That's great," I exclaimed, smiling for the first time.
"Except . . ." he paused, causing my smile to fall away. "Law states that you cannot receive and inherit any of this until you turn eighteen."
He was kidding right? Was this some kind of sick joke?
"Whoa, wait. You mean, I have nothing?" I stammered. "But I'm seventeen. I'm turning eighteen in like nine months. Can't you make some exception?"
"Unfortunately, we can't," Jim lowly replied, taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes.
"And because you're still a minor, you need a guardian," Tina added, only making matters worse. "Your father stated that he wanted you to live with his sister, Greta, in Montana."
"What?"
Did I hear her correctly? Did she say Montana? Where the hell was Montana anyway? In the middle of fucking nowhere? And why hadn't I heard Greta either? Why couldn't I live on my own? How could they drop this bomb on me? How could they drop two bombs on me?
"Okay, you cannot be serious, right?" I stood up, and frantically paced around the living room. "This is some kind of fucking joke, right? Ha, you guys are funny. I'm laughing my ass off right now."
I paced around, and pulled at my hair. I felt light headed and dizzy, like everything around me was crashing down. I tried to take in deep breaths, but nothing seemed to help. I wanted to stay here, in the flat, where the memories of my father still lived. I wanted to stay here, in New York, where it felt like home.
"Samantha, please come down, everything's gonna be alright," Tina said, trying to calm me down. But she failed. Nothing could calm me down.
"You can't make me go, I won't go!" I cried, bursting into tears.
I ran off to my bathroom, and slammed the door after me. I hung over the sink, and dry heaved until my stomach twisted and cringed. I looked at myself in the mirror. Despite the unsightly appearance, I saw only a city girl before me. A rich city girl, who loved her father and nobody else. The longer I stared at my reflection, the more it seemed to change. I no longer saw riches, I no longer saw the city, I no longer saw my father. And before I knew it, I found myself grabbing onto the mirror and smashing it with my hand and onto the ground. Seven years of bad luck? Try seventeen.
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yayay new story! so i have two new stories, this and His Royal Secret, but honestly, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I really enjoy this story, and I know for SURE I'm going to continue it! I hope you all bear with me, as I'm entering my senior year, so the first half of the year is going to be a nightmare. This will however be my main focus story after Leather Kisses is done. I hope you all enjoyy it!