Fuck. This is not good. I stare at my phone, my stomach plummeting as I stare at the pending final grades. If I’m calculating it right, I’m screwed. A D. A fucking D. How the actual fuck did I get a fucking D?
The bustle of people around me fades into the background as my vision tunnels, narrows, until all I can see is that one letter.
D.
Nearby, my friends laugh and giggle, not a care in the world. But the sound is muted somehow, as if I’m hearing it underwater. I’m sure they’re saying something to me, but I don’t understand their words. Only one thing is clear.
D.
Thankfully, my parents are off on some expedition, a month of rejuvenation where phones somehow cease to exist, or they’d know. They’d check in and ask me, and I’d be compelled to tell them. Fuck. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Scrolling through all the other grades, I press my lips together in a thin line.
English Composition - B. Easy class. Should have been an A, but I really didn’t care about pushing really hard. Besides, C is what I’m aiming for. Anything above that is gravy.
Private Piano - A. But of course. I was practically birthed on a baby grand. If I made anything less, I’m sure my parents would be horrified.
Earth Science - B. That one surprises me. I never thought I really had a knack for science. But then, it was really easy to learn what I needed to for the exams then dump it for the next one.
Finite Math - C. Not really surprising there. Until now, I thought math was the subject I was worst at.
But no.
Scottish Literature - D.
The letter stands out in red, as if mocking me. This was supposed to be an easy class! Everyone said so. It’s the only reason I took it in the first place.
For most people going to college just to appease their parents, a D is fine. D means diploma. And for most of those students, their parents probably don’t even care. Mine do. All the little strings attached only stay in place if I can get a C or better in every class.
Technically, they don’t even have access since I’m considered an adult. And yet, Father waits in his study, checkbook on the desk as he watches me login. It’s humiliating, really, but must be done for me to stay in his good graces.
Wrapping my arms around my waist, I stare out into the bleak field in front of me, the grass covered in a smattering of snow. I’m sure it’s prettier in the spring, but I’ve only ever seen Scotland during the winter. Somehow, my parents got it into their head that this is the premiere destination to drop me off so they can enjoy their holidays in solitude.
Honestly, they probably just want their lives in general to be in solitude. Normally, I don’t care. The money they throw at me to keep me ‘appeased’ is enough. But lately, I’ve wanted more.
I’m tired of feeling like I don’t belong, that I’m unwanted, or worse, a mistake. They chose to have me. I didn’t ask to be born. But I know so many would trade places in an instant.
All they see are the fancy clothes, the cash, and privilege. They don’t see the loneliness, the heartache, or the anger. To do anything other than smile graciously does not reflect well on the Carter name, and as the sole heir to their fortune, I must put aside these petty feelings.
If only I could just break free. But again, that takes money—money my father controls with an iron fist. Too bad I can’t take that money and buy love. I mean, technically I can, but I’ll always know it’s fake.
And that’s why I’m stuck in this beautiful hotel feeling nothing. I am nothing. Just a matter of sums and figures. Any man who knows me will only seek out what I’m worth. And those who don’t aren’t nearly interesting enough to hold my attention.
But truthfully, money makes the world go around. As much as I hate it, I can’t deny what it affords me. And so, I do my best to stay my father’s good little girl so I can keep stockpiling the one thing he bestows upon me.
The noises continue to fade as I spiral. I’m out of control. I feel it bubbling up, ready to burst out. Dragging my luggage cart next to me, I cling to it for dear life as I open another app.
This time, it’s my bank account. The numbers are there in black and white. More than a normal person would probably have, but not nearly enough to make my heart stop pounding.
I had plans. Big plans. And now, all of them are slipping away because of a lousy D. There has to be a way to fix this, to change it. Perhaps if I can email the professor…
My thumb hovers over the email app as I think this through. As I understand it, these are just the pending grades. Could he even change it though? Would he even want to? Maybe I can do something to change his mind. God knows I have homework I could turn in if it wasn’t too late…
With a sigh, I find his name and construct an email, praying to whoever hears me that he’ll take my plea for something, anything, into consideration. Releasing my breath, I hit send. Desperation isn’t an emotion I normally feel, and as I sit in these feelings, it’s not pleasant.
Tossing back my head, I tuck my phone away and look over at my friends. They’re so happy. They practically exude holiday enthusiasm. But then, why wouldn’t they? They’re here because they begged their parents to let them go.
I’m here because my parents wanted me away. We are not the same. Not even a little bit. A niggle of jealous rage threatens to eat at my heart as I watch them sipping their expensive lattes, their easy smiles brightening up their faces.
With a sigh, I shake my head. It won’t do for me to be a Scrooge about this. As much as I want to say, ‘bah humbug’ and be done with it, I might need their help. They won’t want to come to my aid if they think I’m going to be a sourpuss.
Plastering on a fake smile, I pull my cart over to theirs and giggle right along. The sound is foreign on my lips, but they don’t seem to mind. In fact, they don’t even seem to notice I’m distracted.
But then, that doesn’t really surprise me either. Sorrow lances my heart as I look over to one of the massive windows and stare out. They’re only here because my parents are footing the bill. Nothing more.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be hurt by any of this. And yet, I can’t help the tight squeeze around my heart as they talk about stuff that really doesn’t matter. Who cares about idle gossip? I sure don’t.
“Hey. I think I’m going to head up to my room and make sure it’s how I want it.” It’s an escape, pure and simple, but if I couch it in elitist terms like this, they won’t look too hard past the façade.
Becky smirks at me as she taps her perfectly manicured nails against her cup. “Yes. And let us know. We’ve never stayed in this place before, so I have no clue if it’s up to our standards.”
Standards. As if that hoe actually has any. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I make my way up to the second-floor tower room. Thankfully, my parents are completely satisfied with letting me have my own space and not forcing me to share it with the bimbos downstairs.
As a valet puts up my things, I look out the window, staring down at the front lawn. Even though it is covered in snow, I can’t deny some parts of this frozen expanse are certainly pretty. Granted, I’m still not sure why my parents chose Glenshee as the place to stash me away for the holidays.
Normally, I’m somewhere much further south, somewhere warmer. I’m not even sure if I ever remember seeing snow during my stay. Mostly it’s been a gray drizzle, the perfect accessory for my dour moods.
Again, that twist of bitterness slashes through me as I grip the windowsill and stare out at the bits of green struggling to poke through the white. I honestly have no idea why I’m even here or why they try to pretend this is such a happy holiday occasion for me. It would have cost less to just let me stay at Loftry for the winter break.
I guess this way they can regale their friends about how good their daughter has it. Who else would let their nineteen-year-old daughter and her friends stay at a castle hotel for the Christmas holidays? With a sigh, I rest my forehead against the window.
Just another jewel to show off in the crown that comprises their parenting. I guess I should be honored to be held in such high esteem. But God, how I hate it.
Off in the corner, a tree twinkles, casting its holiday glow over the place. I should be happy. Delirious. If I’m being honest, this is a nice treat that many don’t get to experience. But in my heart, I can’t find it in me to be happy.
While I was still home, that is before the boarding schools, Christmas was always some lavish affair. As a child, I was overcome by all the glitter and glamor. But as I got older, I saw behind the glitzy façade.
All of it was for show. It was a cold, calculated demonstration of the wealth and power of the Carter name. Nothing more. There was no warmth to it, no love. Just baubles and trinkets to show the world how mighty the dollar was in our household.
It wasn’t about family, love, or getting together with those you cherish and hold dear. But that shouldn’t have surprised me. Though not made clear to those outside of the household, it was apparent I wasn’t really wanted or planned for. I was a complication. An extra bit of responsibility my parents didn’t want.
They didn’t have to say it in words. Their actions told me clearly enough. Sure, they couched it in terms of ‘it’s for her own good,’ or ‘she can get so much culture overseas,’ or even ‘how many girls can say they experienced (insert opportunity of choice here)’. But the message was all the same: I was a thing to be shoved off onto someone else.
If it wasn’t the nanny, it was the au pair. If it wasn’t the au pair, it was the boarding school mistresses. Now, it’s the valet and hotel staff. Knowing my friends, they’ll create enough work for them. They won’t even notice me.
And that’s how I want it. Unnoticed. I just want to slip away and be my own person. Never to be seen or waited on. I want to breathe air that’s not tainted by money.
Unfortunately, I need money to make that happen. Giving the valet a half-hearted smile, I open up my phone again and stare at that godforsaken D. All the money in the world. All the opportunities I could ever want. But all I have to do for it is make C or better.
Granted, I have no fucking clue what they’ll even do to punish me. Make me stay at home and spend time with them? The horror. Honestly, that would be more of a punishment for them instead of me. So that’s not it.
I know Father said he’d cut off any extra money, but then, it’s not like I spend all that much. With a soft sigh, I open my emails to check the flight information. Two days from now, I’ll be heading to Rome, Italy, somewhere I really want to go.
If only Father knew he indirectly paid for this little burst of rebellion. The Hermès Birkin he bought me for my eighteenth birthday fetched a good price. It’s what filled my personal account, the one they know nothing about. It’s not like they’ll miss it anyway. No doubt they just gave some lackey the money and told them to buy whatever they thought I’d want.
I’ve told them again and again I’ve been interested in visiting Italy. They could have given me a Christmas trip there if they actually cared or even paid attention. But no. Back in Scotland, and this time, as if to add insult to injury, it’s fucking freezing.
The country itself is nice, but we go here every year. Granted, I was stuck being watched by some stranger as they traipsed over the countryside doing who knows what. At least last year and this one, I’ve been allowed to go by myself and essentially do what I want.
But it’s not the same. And as beautiful as the country is, I’ve come to despise it. It represents a prison instead of opportunity. Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I shouldn’t be surprised I did so poorly in my Scottish literature class.
If I even gave myself a minute to think, I’d know it was a bad idea. There’s this mental block when it comes to this place, and it must have carried over into my studies. I honestly don’t even remember anything about that class.
Except the teacher, of course. But then, I’d have to be blind not to notice Professor Douglas as he stood up there with his serious frown. Granted, Scottish literature made me frown too, so that’s not at all surprising.
I shake my head to dispel the image of him standing before the class, his pristine shirt stretched taut over his muscles. Though I’d like to say he distracted me with his animal magnetism and dark Scottish brogue, it would be a lie. Deep down, I know that.
And now, with some introspection, I understand why I hated being in that class with a passion. It wasn’t his glare which made me squirm in my seat as raunchy fantasies swirled inside my brain. It wasn’t those strong fingers flexing as he placed his hands on my desk to get my attention.
No. It’s because I fucking hate Scotland and everything it represents. He just happens to be collateral damage. But that’s going to change in just a matter of days.
With a genuine grin, I repack a small bag, opting to just live life freely when I get to my destination. I have enough extra money to buy myself something to wear if I need to. Besides, I’m sure I have other ‘trinkets of my parents’ affection’ to sell if I run out.
All that matters now is getting the fuck out of here and somehow convincing Professor Douglas to change my grade. But then, I have some time to wheedle him down. I just have to think positively.
