Obsession Chapter 1 Part 2
CHAPTER 1 · PART TWO
Obsession
I rolled my eyes, but my smile widened. Her panic never failed to amuse me. I typed back, “On my way. I’m trekking!!! It’ll take time before I get there.”
I hated walking these long distances, but I was broken—broken as a cracked mirror in a cheap motel, barely hanging together, reflecting something but not whole. My pockets were as empty as my ambitions some days, and no amount of Mama’s positivity could fill them.
“Young lady, get here on time.” Her response was almost instant.
I sighed, slipping my phone into my pocket and speeding up, my feet dragging along the dusty road. The heat wrapped around me like a blanket I couldn’t escape—the kind that smothered more than it comforted me.
When I reached the Richardson’s house, I was sweat-drenched, my feet aching from the walk. The weight of everything pressed down on me—the heat, my thoughts, the hollow ache of wanting more but never quite knowing how to get it.
I stood in front of the gate, wiping the sweat from my brow, and for a moment I wondered if life would ever feel different. If I’d ever stop feeling like cigarette ash, floating aimlessly in the breeze, waiting to be forgotten.
I pushed the gate open, and as I stepped into the Richardson’s compound, it felt like walking into another world.
The house’s exterior was beautiful—perfectly manicured lawns stretched before me, greener than anything I’d ever seen. Rose bushes lined the path, each bloom immaculate. A cobblestone driveway curved elegantly toward the house, where fleets of sleek, shining, absurdly expensive cars were parked.
I felt a bitter twist in my gut. People said the rich worked hard for their wealth, that they were wise and strategic. But every time I looked at Mr. Richardson, I wondered if that was just a myth.
He was always out clubbing, flaunting money like it would never run out—packing women around town, drinking himself silly, tossing cash like confetti. His wife, Mrs. Beatrice, wasn’t any better.
One day she was popping expensive bottles of champagne; the next, she was flying to Dubai because she craved the chocolates there.
I wasn’t judging. If anything, that was the kind of life I wanted. But why was life so selective in fulfilling wishes? Some dreams were granted with a silver spoon in hand, while others—like mine—were flung over Mount Everest, never to be seen again.
I sighed and pushed open the door to the house.
Of course, it was prepped for another of Mrs. Beatrice’s infamous parties. Mama had decked out the living room in extravagant decorations—gold and cream streamers tied into neat bows, floral arrangements on every surface.
Giant balloons with glittery “Happy Anniversary” floated lazily in the air. Chandeliers cast a soft glow over marble floors that reflected the room’s opulence.
The furniture was dark wood, rich and polished, with silk cushions that looked like no one had ever sat on them. The house screamed luxury, and I hated how much I envied it.
My gaze shifted to Mama, carefully bringing out champagne glasses—genuine crystal, of course. She wore her usual maid’s uniform: a simple black dress with a white apron tied neatly at her waist.
Seeing her always broke my heart.
“Be careful,” I whispered as I stepped closer.
The last time she’d broken a glass, Mrs. Beatrice had docked six months of her salary, claiming it was a vintage glass used by Queen Elizabeth II herself.
“I know,” Mama replied softly, her eyes weary but focused.
Mrs. Beatrice’s voice cut through the air. “So you cannot greet, abi?”
I stiffened. Her scowl was already fixed on me.
“I was about to greet you,” I began, but Mama cut in quickly.
“Don’t say you were about to greet. Greet her instead,” she urged.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said, forcing the words out.
“And what’s good about the afternoon? Tell me,” Beatrice snapped.
She had always hated me, but after catching wind of her husband’s slimy attempts to seduce me, that hatred had only deepened.
I could avoid her if I wanted—but with these frequent parties and no one else left to help Mama clean up, I had no choice.