8
HOLTI’m a Calson. Everything I ask for I get. Anything I want is mine. Including Sylvie. But unlike the penthouses and sports cars and servants who used to come at my beck-and-call before I dismissed them, I’m actually grateful for Sylvie.
It only takes a week of living with her for me to know I did the right thing. Yeah, closing my blackout curtains to trick her into staying the night when I knew how her strict parents would respond—it was a d**k move. The kind of evil endgame strategy my grandfather excelled at. But it’s not as if her parents ever took care of her the way I can.
With them, Sylvie is like Cinderella, slaving away for everyone but herself. With me, she wants for nothing. She doesn’t even have to work. I remind her of this every morning before she leaves for her job.
