My stepsister hosted a luxury pool party, hiding my clothes so I’d have to expose my prosthetic leg. “Hop out there, pirate! Show my rich friends how defective you are,” she laughed. I didn’t cry. My billionaire husband handed me a briefcase. I walked out wearing a $500,000 custom gold-titanium blade. The VIP investors she was trying to impress immediately stood up and bowed to me, because…
Part 1: The Scent of Desperation The Hollywood Hills possess a highly specific, almost intoxicating scent in the stagnant heat of mid-afternoon. It is a cloying, heavy mixture of blooming star jasmine, imported coconut sunscreen, and the quiet, metallic sweat of individuals terrified of losing their rapidly fading relevance. I sat rigidly by the oversized bay window of the guest bedroom, staring down at the sprawling infinity pool that seemed to sever the edge of the cliff and spill directly into the hazy, smog-choked Los Angeles skyline. “You actually have to come down, Elena,” Chloe sneered, leaning heavily against the mahogany doorframe. She reached up to adjust the thin, jeweled straps of a designer swimsuit that undoubtedly cost more than a reliable used sedan. My stepsister’s lips were painted a venomous shade of crushed coral, currently curled into a practiced, asymmetrical smile that never quite reached the dead, calculating vacancy of her eyes. “Vanguard Capital is going to be out there on the patio in ten minutes,” she continued, filing her perfectly manicured nails with an emery board. “They absolutely love a good charity case. Having my brave, crippled stepsister wheeling around in the background, sipping sparkling water, shows their board that I have a deeply philanthropic soul. It gives my brand texture.” I didn’t look at her immediately. I kept my gaze fixed on the shimmering blue water below, my fingers absently tracing the thick, jagged scar just above my left knee. It was the exact geographical coordinate where, fifteen years ago, crushed steel and shattered windshield glass had stolen half my leg. It had also, coincidentally, left me entirely at the mercy of my father’s new, remarkably toxic family. Following the accident, my father had retreated into his work, leaving me to be raised by his new wife and her cruel, image-obsessed daughter. Chloe had spent a decade and a half utilizing my amputation as a theatrical prop. To her, I was merely the broken, defective thing that made her look whole. I was the walking, limping tragedy designed by the universe to amplify her artificial, manufactured light. She desperately needed a Series A funding injection for her …
My stepsister hosted a luxury pool party, hiding my clothes so I’d have to expose my prosthetic leg. “Hop out there, pirate! Show my rich friends how defective you are,” she laughed. I didn’t cry. My billionaire husband handed me a briefcase. I walked out wearing a $500,000 custom gold-titanium blade. The VIP investors she was trying to impress immediately stood up and bowed to me, because… Read More....