The Billion Dollar Dress

[Chapter 1] Regretful News and Motorcycles

[Chapter 1] Regretful News and Motorcycles

Lea's POV

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

I take picture after picture, clicking the button multiple times over one violet flower. Taking in the beauty of nature.

I know that sounds corny, but what? I can't help it, I'm just like that.

Most people expect me, Lea Sommers, daughter of multi billionaire Mark Sommers, to be a rich, spoiled brat. But guess what, they are wrong. Just because my Dad happens to own a huge company, or since my Mom used to be a world famous model, every one assumes I'm an ungrateful, rude, insensitive, stuck up child. I despise when people think I'm that way. I may have been spoiled since birth, but that doesn't mean I'm not grateful for my life, and everything that's been given to me.

But you are spoiled.

Whenever visitors come over to our mansion of a house, they are stunned by beauty of our gardens, or the majestic nature of our thirty something sleek Mustangs. But they are even more stunned by the fact that I am there, and quietly polite, and so much as utter the words "thank you" to the cooks as they serve our food (which, by the way, the oh-so-very-stunned guests never bother to do).

They never expect me to actually be anywhere. When I was a teenager, I was practically excluded from ever family interview, one-on-one interview, articles is the newspapers and magazines. Even my name was hardly mentioned. It was like she was one of those people on those 'Where Are They Now' reality TV shows.

Once I 'got ahold of my life', I was still sheltered away by my parents. E-mail interviews were rare. In-person interviews were rarer. Nothing was to be said of The Dark Period.

Putting the cap back over the camera lens, I stand up from my former squatted position. I begin to walk down one of my many paths, towards the gate in the distance.

My parents constructed a small area for my nature photography. They had paid someone to plant grass and flowers, along with many pathways made from stones. At the very center is a small pond, complete with lilly pads and a short waterfall sprouting from the middle. So sometimes I would come in the middle of the night and walk around here, enjoying the fresh air.

Oh-so-very-spoiled. Still. And obviously enjoying it. You shouldn't be enjoying it.

I didn't specifically ask for them to build this perfect getaway-from-the-world for me, but I assume they knew how much I'd love it. It's absolutely perfect for me. No loud people to watch over my shoulder as I take pictures, equip with a constant flow of meaningless questions and comments. No one except for myself is aloud in this haven.

You should feel resent for them, for doing this to you.

I approach the towering black iron wrought gate, and stick my hand inside the mailbox next to it. The maids usually fetch the mail, but I got here early enough to today. Sifting through the stack of envelopes and flyers, I place the bills and useless ones back into the mailbox. The maids can get those later.

I clutch the letters for my family and I in one hand before scurrying towards an oak tree. Sitting down against it, I open the first note addressed to myself. It states the usual, inviting me to a dinner party on East Avenue, Sunday night. The next is practically the same, and so are the other nine. I wont be aloud to attend any of them. I honestly wouldn't want to anyway. Leaving the rest of the family's letters untouched, I begin to walk back to the house.

When I look down, an address catches my attention. St. Claire Medical Hospital. Frowning, I search for the owner of the letter. It's to my mother. Should I open it? It is her business... but then again it could be important. Tearing into the letter before I have a chance to fill guilty, I start reading it.