Tightrope

You're Obsessed With Me

Jace strolled into my room, his gaze immediately roving. There was... a significant amount of space for his eyes to land on. The outlandish lavishness of the room was not lost on me.

An elegant, four-poster queen-sized bed was the centrepiece of the room, fairytale princess shimmery curtains hanging from the sides. A dramatic chandelier hung from the ceiling, gorgeous and glimmering and ostentatiously expensive. A flat-screen TV took up one of the walls, but the rest was glamourous in a more traditional fashion, decorated in silvers and greys. The walk-in robe was open, allowing Jace to peer into my ridiculous array of clothes and shoes. There was also a balcony, which, while I recognized was completely unwarranted, was my favourite part.

I wouldn't say I was overly arrogant about my wealth; I'd grown up rich, I'd never known anything else, but I went to a fairly middle-class school. I knew that bragging wasn't looked upon kindly.

"Wow," said Jace. For some reason, watching him look upon the opulence of my home made me uncomfortable. I'd never before cared if he judged me, but suddenly, I found that I did. "It's uh... big."

"Excellent observational skills."

"I always knew you were rich," said Jace. "You always did come off as abnormally pretentious with a side of unearned arrogance and the fattest ego I've ever seen—"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"You know I'm not. This is just... this is new. This is, uh, big."

"Yeah, you said that already." I grinned. "I'm a wealthy heiress, Hartley. Stop gawking and reconsidering every mean thing you've ever said to me. You want to leech off my funds like the rest of our incorrigible friends."

Jace smiled back at me. "Chance is abnormally obsessed with your fridge."

"As am I."

"See, I'm far more ambitious than Chance. I was considering the best way to smuggle the chandelier out and sell it on the black market."

"You know what? I appreciate that kind of entrepreneurial spirit in a guy."

Having Jace in my bedroom was extremely uncomfortable—he was probably taking note of entry points so that he could sneak in, the little thief—so I grabbed the set of rustic double doors I'd had installed (because they were adorable) to separate my bedroom from the playroom that Liv and I shared. Austin used the basement now.

When I looked at the space—my eye more objective now that Jace was here, as if I was seeing it for the first time—I winced. My bedroom was the space that was clean and neat and, admittedly, looked like a picture from a catalogue, completely void of signs of life. This space was undeniably mine. And not necessarily my best side.

"Lena Montez's 101 Guide to Exorcising a Demon?" said Jace, skeptically.

I had definitely forgotten the amount of Jace Hartley-hatred memorabilia I owned. There wasn't an obscene amount, thankfully, because I wasn't an obsessive stalker. But I definitely had far more than was considered acceptable by general society. It wasn't like we were friends, and therefore pictures of his face weren't exactly an acceptable décor option. And when you considered the curly moustache and blacked-out eyes that defaced the school photo Liv had carefully cut out of the yearbook for me, it didn't look any better.

Liv's side of the play space was far less concerning. She liked to decorate with colourful pillows and throws, all carefully curated by an interior designer. She was always admonishing me for my uncoordinated knickknacks.

"Uh... I must admit, I did forget that I had all of this stuff in here," I said, defensively. "Like, when you have stuff up for so long, you don't really register it anymore."