CHAPTER THREE
909 Words
3 months later
ROCHELLE
“Rochelle, darlin’!” Becky calls from downstairs.
I quickly throw on a t-shirt over my red pleated skirt, pull my hair into a neat ponytail, and put on my recommended glasses.
Let me catch you up:
Three months ago, a homeless me walked into a café and met the angel I call Rebekkah. Becky gave me a job and offered me a place to live. She’s like an older sister — she takes care of me, protects me.
She even put me in a ‘How to Overcome Hard Drugs’ group.
And I’ve been clean off cocaine for three months and counting.
I’m grateful for everything she’s done. She truly is a godsend.
I rush downstairs, trying to put on my shoes as I reach the ground floor — but I trip on a shoelace and tumble down the last few steps, slamming on my back.
“Ow!” I groan.
“That’s gotta hurt, honey,” Becky laughs, taking the kettle off the stove and pouring two cups of tea.
“I’m okay!” I laugh and hobble up to the kitchen counter.
“You do know you’ve got class today, don’t ya?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Yeah… I know,” I groan, rubbing my sore back.
Becky enrolled me in part-time classes to get a minor business degree, so I could work beyond her café — maybe even take over someday.
She never had kids because she was barren. For that, her husband left her.
Asshole, if you ask me.
“I also have my group therapy today,” I add. She hums and whisks some eggs in the pan.
“You’re going three months clean now, aren’t you?” she asks, and I nod. She smiles proudly.
I smile back, then glance at the clock.
“9:30 AM! Oh s**t! I’m late for my lecture!”
I shove a toast into my mouth, grab my bag and phone, and head out.
I pause at the door.
“You’re a gem, Becky,” I say.
She blows me a kiss.
I close the door behind me, mount my bike, and pedal down the street.
---
KIERAN
“We’re about to land, Young Master De La Vega,” the flight attendant smiles.
I nod, swallowing hard, adjusting my tie.
Nervousness and anxiety crawl under my skin. My palms sweat.
Get it together, Kieran! You’re clean now. Older. Better than five years ago.
I take a deep breath and stand.
The plane touches down.
Waiting outside is an older version of myself — my father.
Greyish-black hair, still broad shoulders, sharp hazel green eyes. He stands beside a black Ferrari, flanked by bodyguards.
I straighten, walking calmly down the stairs.
For a moment, I catch a gleam of pride in his eyes — then it vanishes, replaced by cold, distant sternness.
“Father,” I say, nodding respectfully.
He cups my face in his hands.
“Welcome home, my son.”
---
The mansion doors swing open as I step inside.
The sight hits me hard — memories flooding back all at once.
This was once a home before it became a hollow place filled with lifeless, unhappy souls — before I left.
“You remember your room?” my father asks.
I nod with a small hum.
“Freshen up and meet me in my study,” he orders, striding away.
I sigh and climb the stairs, opening my old door.
“Well, you’re different,” I laugh softly.
We both are. Five years change a place… and a person.
The room is different.
Gone are the rock guitars, posters of half-naked women, and black curtains.
The walls are a calm, manly brown. White tile floors. Light brown curtains to match.
The bed sheets, pillowcases, and blankets are crisp white.
I open the closet.
Also different.
I laugh dryly.
Ripped jeans, leather jackets, and t-shirts have been replaced by crisp white and black office shirts, chinos, suits, loafers, a drawer full of socks, watches, and ties.
I breathe deep and unbutton my shirt, preparing for a shower.
Well… this is the life now.
---
“Good, Kieran. You’re here. Come in,” my father beckons.
I enter his study and eye the company.
A man about my father’s age and a young, petite blonde sit on the sofa.
I take a seat on the opposite couch, right beside my father.
“Kieran, this is Mr. Bradley Millers and his daughter, Catherine,” my father starts.
I stare at them sceptically.
“Mr. Millers is one of our very important clients. His daughter just turned eighteen, and he’s looking for a formidable business alliance,” my father explains.
Oh no. I know where this is going.
I cover my face with my hands, stifling a groan.
“Mr. Millers and I were thinking…” he continues.
Thinking? That’s never good.
“…You and Catherine would make a beautiful couple.”
No s**t, Sherlock.
I press my lips into a thin line.
This cannot be happening.
First, he ships me off to ‘rich-boy prison’. Now, he’s marrying me off for what? More clout?
“I’m late for fencing,” I say through clenched teeth, abruptly standing and walking out.
They all stare, mouths agape.
That was satisfying.
My father’s face twists in anger.
Not good. But hey — we’ll cross that bridge when I return.
- Writer
