Chapter One: This Isn't Home

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There's a special kind of hell reserved for moments like these. The kind of hell where you're dropped into an unfamiliar world, with unfamiliar people, and you have to pretend like you're perfectly okay when, really, you're about five seconds away from bolting in the opposite direction.

Welcome to my life. The life of Heaven Astrid Holden, former daughter of a single mom and now... well, daughter of the man who abandoned me when I was seven. Yeah, it's not the kind of Cinderella story I'd been hoping for.

The car pulls up to the mansion, and I blink, wondering if this is some sort of mistake. It looks like the kind of house that could be featured on some reality TV show for the ridiculously rich and stupid. Marble columns, a circular driveway, and a front lawn that's manicured to the point of obsession. My suitcase is sitting in the backseat, mocking me with its stupid bright purple color. It doesn't belong here, and neither do I.

"Home sweet home," the driver says, glancing at me through the rearview mirror like he's handing me over to my doom.

"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "Sweet."

Stepping out of the car, I get my first real look at the mansion that I'm apparently going to be living in. It's massive. Like, 'could fit ten of my old houses in it' massive.

And standing in front of it, waiting for me like some awkward family reunion from a soap opera, is my father. Richard Holden, in the flesh. He's as tall and imposing as I remember, standing at around six feet two with a broad-shouldered frame that commands attention.

His once jet-black hair is now streaked with gray, cut neatly in a style that screams business mogul. His face is stern, with a strong jawline and deep-set brown eyes that have always been more calculating than warm. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced now, a testament to years of running a company and living a life where emotions are a luxury he can't afford.

Next to him is Margaret. The replacement wife. She stands at about five foot six, with a slender build and the kind of beauty that comes from hours at a high-end salon. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, perfectly styled without a strand out of place.

Her eyes are a striking hazel, the kind that would look friendly if it weren't for the forced smile she's wearing. Her makeup is immaculate, her clothes expensive and understated—a cream-colored blouse tucked into a designer skirt, paired with heels that could probably pay someone's rent. She waves at me with a practiced grace, as if I'm some distant relative visiting for the holidays rather than her husband's estranged daughter.

And behind them are their two kids—my half-sister and step-brother, Emily and Josh.

Emily, at first glance, is a smaller version of Margaret, with the same blonde hair but with a hint of a natural wave that suggests she's not as meticulous about her appearance yet. She looks to be about sixteen, dressed in a pastel-colored cardigan over a simple dress that makes her seem younger than her age.

Her hazel eyes are wide and curious, darting between me and her parents like she's trying to gauge the situation. There's a softness to her expression, a kind of timid politeness that tells me she's the type to follow rules and avoid conflict at all costs.

Josh, on the other hand, is a blend of both his parents. He's around five years old, with a mop of light brown hair that carries Margaret's golden undertone but is as unruly and untamed as Richard's once was. His eyes are a sharp hazel, a perfect mix of Margaret's striking gaze and Richard's intensity.

They carry a spark of curiosity and a hint of the mischief that only kids his age seem to master effortlessly. His facial features are a balanced mix—Margaret's delicate nose and Richard's strong jawline. He's dressed in a casual t-shirt with a superhero logo and a pair of jeans, sneakers scuffed from what I imagine is a lot of running around and climbing things he probably shouldn't be climbing.

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