I walked into Couture Boutique, the smooth sound of jazz filling the air, and instantly feel that rush, same rush that comes with
spending money that doesn't feel like it's ever going to run out.
The lightsare low, and everything around me is pure, unadulterated luxury. Expensive
leather, the latest designer shoes, and perfectly tailored coats.
"Do you think this looks good?" I ask James, my boyfriend for the last six months.
He's lounging in one of the velvet chairs, tapping away on his phone, glancing up only to see me holding up a shimmering Chanel
bag.
"Sure," he says, half-distracted, his gaze not fully meeting mine. "You always look great, Amanda."
I smile, feeling a little high on the moment, a little high on the shopping, on the luxury I've grown so accustomed to. This is the life I was born into, the life that I was always
meant to have.
"I think it'll look perfect with the new shoes," I reply, walking over to the shoe section.
My fingers graze the smooth heels, my eyes lighting up at the price tag. It's nothing to me.
James is busy with his phone again, scrolling through something I'm suredoesn't matter. Maybe it's a new yacht or a private plane.
He's from money, just like me, but somehow, it always feels like I'm the one
keeping up. I'm the one that needs the best. The most expensive.
I end up picking out a pair of Louboutins, classic, red-bottomed shoes. I deserve this, right?
"Can we just…go?" James says, looking bored. "You've bought half the store
already."
I roll my eyes. "You're so dramatic. These are investments."
He shrugs and pockets his phone. "I guess. Just don't go overboard."
"Of course not," I reply, even though I know I've already crossed the line.
But what does it matter? My parents can handle it. They always have.
An hour later, I'm in the backseat of my car, staring out the window as the city zooms by. The bags beside me feel almost heavy now, each one reminding me that I'll be paying for this on my dad's credit card, just like I always do. That's how it's always been. No questions asked.
But today is different. I don't know why, but something feels different.
When I step into the door of our Mansion, I don't expect to hear the usual soft hum of
the TV or my mother's laughter from the kitchen. It's eerily quiet, like something's off.
"Mom? Dad?" My voice sounds too loud, too sharp.
I don't get an immediate answer. Instead, I find them sitting in the living room, both of them staring at me with expressions I can't read.
Something tightens in my chest. They're upset.
I drop my bags by the door and try to keep my voice calm, but I can already
tell something's wrong.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, forcing a smile.
My dad stands up from the couch, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "Sit down, Amanda."
My heart beats faster. This isn't like him. It's not like either of them. They've always spoiled me, always indulged me. I'm their only child, their princess, their everything.
"What's going on?" I ask, my voice small, confused.
My mom doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at the bags. Then her lips purse, and she stands. "This has gone too far, Amanda."
My stomach drops. "What are you talking about?"
"You've spent thousands today," she says coldly, shaking her head. "Again."
"Mom, it's nothing—"
"You don't get it, Amanda," my dad interrupts, his voice rising a little.
"We can't keep enabling you. You're not a little girl anymore. We've let you live in this bubble of privilege for too long. It's time to
grow up."
The words hit harder than I expected. I stand there, frozen, staring at my parents as their disappointment washes over me. They've always been indulgent. But now, they're angry. I've never seen them like this before.
"You're going to live with the Montgomerys," my mother announces, her voice cold, final. "We've already made arrangements."
I blink, barely processing her words. The Montgomerys? Who are they? My mind tries to keep up, but I can't wrap my head around it.
"The Montgomerys?" I ask, my voice shaky.
I've heard of them, but I don't know them. My parents' old friends, right? I don't even remember meeting them.
"Yes," my father says. "You're going to stay with them. Their Mansion is near your school, you won't have to waste one hour drive. And you need to learn."
"Wait—no! I'm not going anywhere!" My voice rises, full of frustration. "I don't need this. I'm not going to live with some stranger, some family friends. I—"
"You're going," my dad says, cutting me off. "This is happening whether you like it or not. You'll stay with them until you learn how to manage your life, Amanda."
I stand there, frozen, the weight of what they're saying settling on me. I don't know these people. I don't want to live with them.
"You can't do this to me." My voice cracks, the sting of betrayal settling deep in my chest. I feel the anger build up, but I can't do
anything about it. My parents are determined. They won't change their minds.
Later that night, I sit on my bed, staring at the shopping bags scatteredaround my room. My eyes burn from holding back tears, but I refuse to cry. I won't let them see me weak.
This is all wrong. How can they do this to me? How can they force me to live
with strangers when I've done nothing wrong?
I think about the Montgomerys again. I've heard about them, but I don't remember meeting them. All I know is that I don't want to be there, but there's nothing I can do.
Tomorrow, I'll pack my things and leave this behind. I'll go live with a family I barely know, a family that will teach me to be independent, they say.
But all I feel is resentment. Anger.
And a bit of fear about what's to come.