It was Christmas Eve and the Mason mansion was filled with hubbub. Little girls dressed in white ran around and famous writers and journalists held glasses of wine and were engaged in deep conversation.
“Annabelle, help me get these cakes out”.
A middle aged, yet radiant woman called out for her daughter from the kitchen. She was dressed in a blood red dress and her dirty brown hair was pinned back in a beautiful bun.
She seemed bold and yet something about her expression said she was broken.
Brooke Scott was a single parent to her daughter Annabelle. Her father George Mason was a big time director of New York’s best selling magazine Timber.
Despite having a seventeen year old daughter, she was just thrity-nine years old herself.
“Annabelle!” she called out again and handed a tray of starters to a waitress.
Brooke smoothened her dress, put on a smile and walked out of the huge kitchen. She was instantly greeted by the young gentlemen in the room who kissed her hand politely. Even the women, most of whom envied her, turned to look at her as she made her entrance.
She was insanely beautiful.
George frowned at all these gestures. He had often told Brooke to consider a second marriage but she just wouldn’t budge.
When she saw Annabelle in the corner of the room, flirting with a guy, it drove her insane. It was more than just a maternal instinct that made her want to pull the teenager away from the guy who’s hands were now on her waist.
But before she could act, George’s claps caught her attention.
“Grab a drink everyone” announced George in his accent thick andhis breath reeking of scotch. He walked into the main hall and all others followed him.
“I would like to make a toast to one of our best employees who has started out on his journey to writing a book.”
Brooke smiled genuinely. Her father had helped many aspiring and talented writers fulfil their dreams and she was proud of him.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, he continued, “Kian Richards.”
Brooke was about to down her drink when the name rang a bell. She was only able to catch a glimpse of the man’s side profile but even half his smile was enough for her to recognise him.
Her thoughts were drowned in the echoing applause and she no longer knew what she was doing. She half skipped, half ran out of the room and stood panting against the closet under the stairs.
Annabelle who stood across her raised her hand mid-air and gave her a "what just happened" look. Brooke sighed and signalled Annabelle to follow her and walked into the closet.
It had a few coats and umbrellas, golf clubs and fishing poles but it was big enough for them to stand comfortably.
Annabelle looked horrified at her mother’s outburst but before she could say (or ask for that matter) anything Brooke seemed to have found her voice.
“So”, she said nervously, “want to hear a story?”
