Chapter 5
The grand living room of the Conrad estate in Long Island was a monument to old money. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting warm light over authentic Persian rugs and priceless Renaissance oil paintings.
Standing dead center on the most expensive rug was Kaylie.
She wore a faded, cheap floral dress that hung awkwardly on her frame. Her hair was frizzy, lacking the gloss of expensive salon treatments. Her eyes darted around the room, greedily drinking in the gold-leaf trim on the crown molding and the massive marble fireplace.
Footsteps echoed from the second floor.
Harriett Conrad hurried down the sweeping oak staircase. She wore a tailored Chanel suit, her neck draped in heavy pearls.
Harriett reached the bottom step and stopped. She stared at Kaylie. Her eyes instantly filled with tears.
"Oh, my god," Harriett gasped.
She ran across the room. She threw her arms around Kaylie, pulling the girl into a crushing embrace. Harriett buried her face in Kaylie's frizzy hair, sobbing loudly.
"My baby," Harriett wailed. "My real baby. You're finally home."
Kaylie stiffened for a fraction of a second. Then, she relaxed her shoulders and slumped against Harriett. She rested her cheek against Harriett's expensive silk shawl.
Kaylie bit down hard on her lower lip. The physical pain forced a rush of moisture to her eyes.
"Mom?" Kaylie whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "Is it really you? The people at the foster home... they said nobody would ever want me."
Harriett pulled back. She cupped her face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over Kaylie's un-moisturized cheeks. Harriett's heart broke into a million pieces.
"They were monsters!" Harriett cried, her voice thick with guilt and rage. "I will give you the world, Kaylie. Everything in this house is yours. I promise you."
In the corner of the room, the shrill ring of an antique brass telephone shattered the emotional moment.
The head butler, standing stiffly by the wall, picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment, then walked over and bowed slightly, holding the phone out to Harriett.
"Madam. It is Brenda calling from Manhattan," the butler said softly.
Harriett wiped her eyes, her expression instantly shifting from maternal warmth to deep annoyance. She snatched the receiver.
"What is it?" Harriett snapped.
Through the earpiece, Brenda's nervous voice crackled. "Madam, Miss Isabella has been in a car accident. She requested a car be sent immediately."
Harriett rolled her eyes. Her fingers tightly clutched the edge of her silk shawl.
"A car accident? Or did she just scratch the paint on her bumper again?" Harriett scoffed loudly into the phone. "Tell her to take a cab. I don't have time for her pathetic attention-seeking games today."
Kaylie, standing just inches away, watched Harriett's face closely. She saw the irritation. She saw the lack of concern.
Kaylie hunched her shoulders, making herself look smaller. She took a step back, wrapping her arms around her own waist.
"Mom?" Kaylie asked, her voice a tiny, frightened squeak. "Is... is my sister mad that I'm here? If she doesn't want me here, I can go back to the foster home. I don't want to cause trouble."
Harriett's eyes widened in horror at the thought. She slammed the telephone receiver down onto the cradle with a loud clatter.
She turned and grabbed Kaylie's hands, squeezing them tightly.
"Don't you ever say that," Harriett said fiercely. "Isabella is nothing but a cuckoo bird who stole your nest. She has no right to be angry. You are the only mistress of this house."
Kaylie lowered her head, letting her messy bangs fall over her eyes. Beneath the shadow of her hair, the corners of her mouth twitched upward into a victorious smirk.
Harriett turned to the butler, her face hardening into a mask of aristocratic coldness.
"When Isabella arrives, bring her straight to the living room," Harriett ordered. "It's time she learned her actual place in this family."
Outside the heavy oak front doors, the deep, rumbling sound of a Lincoln Navigator's engine cutting off echoed through the courtyard.
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