Page 16 of The Princess and the Fraud

Despite being surrounded by luxury at work, day in and day out, I knew nothing of it when I stepped off the estate’s grounds.

My car was a fifteen-year-old sedan that my mom had bought used. It was a stick-shift, and I still wasn’t sure I knew how to drive it. She’d say I didn’t. I’d say that the gearshift crunching every time I shifted was a part of its charm, and not because of user error.

My apartment was a small one-bedroom, one-bathroom that had seen better days. It was a landlord-styled artwork of painted over window ledges and water-stained ceilings, but the apartment building itself had other issues, like tenants who were also into…suspiciousactivities, to say the least. I didn’t step outside of my apartment after dark.

Not luxurious. Not fancy. But cheap.

All because every single penny I didn’t need went to 1442 Everview Road.

I sat on the floor between my couch and my coffee table, staring at my glowing laptop, my teeth teasing the torn cuticle on my thumb. The numbers on the screen blurred as I blinked, my throat tight.

$124,599.

I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting. It was a lot of money that came from five years of double shifts, aching feet, and exhaustion so all-consuming that it’d become a permanent way of being. More money than I’d ever seen in my life, and it sat in my bank account.

A lot of money, but notenough. Maybe enough for a down payment for a normal person if they worked a corporate job—and had a dual income with a partner, or a reputable cosigner—but if I told lenders I worked as a server at a country club, they’d laugh in my face.

It wasn’t just a downpayment I needed the money for. It was mortgage, property taxes, insurance, and fixing up the run-down house. I didn’t have nearly enough.

My fingers curled into fists, panic beginning to seep in. Mom’s dream house would go to auction, which meant the price might be lower, but when I checked the realtor’s website, the wordsMust Prequalify for Loanglared back at me. I wouldn’t qualify. Not without a partner, not without dual income, and not without a reputable cosigner. No lender would give me a quarter.

And then, even more damning:This property needs significant renovation and repairs. Sold as is.

“As is” had a picture of the house that didn’t look too bad from the outside. There wasn’t too much wear and tear, which made me wonder if the picture had been old. There were no images of the interior.

I’d never asked Mom what it was about the house that she loved so much. I never thought to; it’d been easier for me to let her mindlessly dream while I’d focused on my own. And now, when I would’ve given anything to hear the answer, she was no longer around to ask.

With a sigh, I laid my head on the top of the couch cushion, staring up at the water-stained ceiling that almost held the pattern of an eyeball. A staring contest with it was ridiculous, but here I was, watching a mark on the popcorned surface as if it would blink first.

I had limited options. Go around from lender to lender and see if any of them would take a chance on me. Take a risk stumbling across the wrong loan shark. Ask Mr. Robertsagainabout the Christmas bonus. Maybe sell a kidney.

Ask Grant.

My stomach recoiled in response.

When I found out Grant had been cheating last fall, I’d blocked him on every single platform. Six months ago, I hadn’t even entertained the idea of holding onto him for the sake of the house. He was rich; he could’ve bought it for me. But my desperation to fulfill my mother’s dream hadn’t outweighed my self-respect.

And here I was, six months later, considering throwing that self-respect in the garbage.

But, please. Surely my ex had forgotten all about Alderton-Du Ponte’s Cinderella he’d abandoned once the clock struck twelve.

The next logical thought would be to go to Caroline, his sister. Honestly, it would’ve made more sense to go to Caroline, since she was my best friend, but I cringed at the idea. Being indebted to her for that much money feltwrong,with big exclamation points. I couldn’t pinpoint thewhy, but I knew it was off the table.

As the pressure built within me, cracking me like a piece of glass holding too much weight, I found myself reaching for my phone. The selfish need was too much to ignore, and I needed it this once—just once, and then I wouldn’t do it again. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d caved, but the thoughts were just too loud in my head, too much, and I couldn’tthink.

I loaded up YouTube, typed in Massenet’s “Méditation”fromThaïs, and clicked the first cover that came up.

The piece was originally made for violin, but its cello arrangement was nothing short of hypnotizing. Calming. It was almost always performed with a piano accompaniment, but for this cover, it was solely the cello’s beautiful baritone. I closed my eyes, and, on instinct, my brows scrunched as the sweep of the cello filled the air. For that greedy moment, I allowed myself to pretend the world fell away as the notes wrapped around me, and I basked in the momentary lack ofbeing.

I knew if I looked at the screen, I’d find a thirteen-year-old girl executing the interpretation with a bit too much emotion seeping through, her inhales and exhales not quite blending perfectly in time with the measures, but there was no mistaking the passion in each sweep of her bow. Her love for playing was clear with each resonating note.

I knew, because it was a recording of me. Lovely Little Virtuoso.My YouTube page immortalized my life as a childhood cellist, sitting in the corner of the internet and waiting for me to grow nostalgic.

Waiting for me to grow desperate, like moments such as this one.

This is what jumping would’ve been like, a traitorous thought whispered.

The rich vibrato trembled in my fingertips, swelling in intensity before decreasing to a soft note in another, leaving me suspended in the rollercoaster.

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