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𝓸. prologue ── DEAREST GOLDEN GIRL
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BACK ON THE DAYS WHEN Becka Lancaster was youngerand she was yet not too bothered by the freckles in her shoulders and arms or thought in maybe dying her hair to black (or perhaps it should be orchid or indigo? She had to check which one matched better with her eyes before taking a serious decision like that), her father used to call her his dearest golden girl. Becka was probably nineteen the last time she listened those words addressed for her—the dearest golden Lancaster girl she had been, with her perfect Louis Vuitton coral skirt and her perfect diamond earrings shining all the way around the room with every of her steeps. Lovely indeed.
Her dad loves deeply the nickname he made up for her (better say loved, as he currently seems to have forgotten about it). He barely called her by her own name, Becka now realizes. It was just golden girl this and golden girl that, as if Becka had just disappeared and been replaced by a perfect carbon copy of herself for her father to be delighted at his own expenses. There was never a hug in between or soft kisses on her cheeks because Roger Lancaster is certainly not a man of charming gestures but rather charming words. Hell, her father is fucking good with words and such, always knowing exactly what to say and how to say it. Becka actually considers it is terrific for someone to be like that.
Becka can't exactly remember the day on the calendar when it all began to change (maybe on summer?), but rather all her vision of the situation would only lay down on the pompous smirk in her dad's face when he had gotten into her room with a knock after a day of work. And as he spoke something incomprehensible for Becka about his future meeting for the next morning with some important lawyers from Landman and Zack, he accidentally let it slip the news that he had already ensured her a place in his old college, his smirk becoming wider. She did remember perfectly her own reaction, though; she suddenly frowning and folding a corner of the Elle she was reading, unsure of what to say because big difference with his dearest dad, Becka did not share any enthusiasm for seeking for perfect words and perfect moments for them to be said.
"I still haven't figured out what I want, dad" she had answered, eyelashes falling as she flickered pretending not to be surprised. She knew the question would come soon, but certainly she didn't expect it in the middle of whatever month they were—none of her friends were talking about college yet, why would she then? Her father was overreacting like he did with everything lately, and Becka hated it. "I was actually thinking in taking a sabbatical year for..."
