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Sloane Miller ascended the stone steps of the Getty mansion, her breath fogging in the frigid evening air. She’d finally made it home, despite the storm.

Home being a very loose term.

The plastic bags she carried weighed heavily in her hands, their sharp edges cutting into her palms. Her gloves, worn thin from years of use, offered little protection against the cold. She adjusted the weight of the bags, biting her lip to suppress a groan that was half frustration, half exhaustion.

Each step toward the sprawling Seattle house felt like a battle—one she knew she couldn’t avoid.

The storm clouds gathering on the horizon mirrored her mood, their dark shadows stretching over the lawns that had been manicured to within an inch of their lives. She paused at the top step, her mom’s voice echoing in her mind: Even when the storm clouds gather, angel, there’s always a way to find the light.

The thought brought a fleeting smile to Sloane’s lips, though it did little to warm the chill in her chest. She cast one last glance behind her, as though she might spot an escape route through the iron gates sitting just past the unnaturally tidy lawn.

God, how her free spirit of a mother would’ve hated this place. Would’ve said it had no life whatsoever, despite its size and grandeur. Ironic that the very woman who would’ve been the first person to tell Sloane to leave was the reason she couldn’t.

Squaring her shoulders, hands too full to knock, she kicked at the heavy oak door.

The sound reverberated through the entryway, and within seconds, the door creaked open, revealing Nathan’s perpetually disapproving face. The butler’s thin lips twisted into a frown as his eyes scanned her from head to toe.

“Miss Miller.” His tone dripped with disdain. “Must you always announce yourself so…uncouthly?”

“Wouldn’t need to announce myself in any way if I were given a key to my own residence.” The bags of skin care products, gourmet truffles, and dry cleaning swung at her sides as she walked.

Nathan didn’t respond to her comment. She hadn’t expected him to. But his gaze followed her as though her very presence sullied the pristine marble floors.

“You’ve tracked water inside,” he called after her, his tone sharper now. “I hope you’re planning to come back and clean this up.”

Far be it for the butler to do any actual butlering, but she didn’t say anything. She’d been made aware unequivocally that Nathan worked for the family.

And Sloane wasn’t family. At least, not in any way that counted.

“I’ll take this,” Nathan continued, removing the dry cleaning bag from her grasp. “And dinner is ready.”

“Let me get the rest of this stuff put away.” Her boots echoed in the cavernous hallway, each step a reminder of how out of place she was in this house. The grand oil paintings lining the walls, the crystal chandeliers, the ornate rugs—they all whispered the same thing: You don’t belong here .

She carefully placed the half dozen bags filled with nonessentials—things that could have easily waited until after the storm—just inside Marissa’s bedroom door, arranging them neatly. With a sigh, Sloane pulled the door firmly shut behind her. If she left it open even a crack, she’d hear about it.

She rushed to grab the mop from the back laundry room and wipe up the water she’d tracked in, ignoring the growling of her stomach that reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was no use getting annoyed at Nathan for not doing something that was arguably his job and that he would do for anyone else in the house—other staff included. Sloane was better off saving her energy for bigger battles.

She put the mop away then made her way to the dining room, pausing outside the double doors, taking a steadying breath. The sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs drifted through the crack. She pushed the doors open, bracing herself for the frosty reception she knew awaited her.

William Getty, her father, sat at the head of the long table, a crystal tumbler of scotch already in hand. Clarice, her immaculately dressed stepmother, occupied the chair to his right, her pearls gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. Marissa, Sloane’s half sister, lounged beside her, scrolling through her phone with a bored expression.

Three place settings.

Sloane’s stomach twisted at the sight. The exclusion wasn’t an oversight. It never was.

“Evening,” she said, her voice carefully neutral as she stepped into the room.

Clarice glanced at her, the corners of her mouth curling into a faint sneer. “You’re late,” she said, her tone as sharp as the diamond earrings dangling from her ears.

Sloane set her jaw. “It’s been storming all day,” she replied evenly, grabbing the plate of lukewarm food waiting on the console table, moving toward the unoccupied end of the dining table. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Excuses,” her father said without looking up from his plate.

Correction: William said without looking up from his plate. William Getty didn’t think of himself as her father at all. The one time she’d slipped up and called him “Father” out loud to his face had gotten her backhanded.

Marissa finally glanced up from her phone, her perfectly arched brows furrowing. “Did you pick up my dresses?”

Sloane nodded. “I gave them to Nathan. He’ll?—”

“You gave them to Nathan?” Marissa interrupted, her voice rising an octave. “I told you to take them straight to my room. How hard is it to follow basic instructions?”

Her half sister was a year younger than Sloane and looked so much like her they could’ve passed for twins. Had, in fact, on occasion.Not that any of them would ever claim Sloane as a blood relation, despite the fact that their genes fairly screamed it.

“I was carrying fifty pounds of the other stuff you needed ,” Sloane shot back before she could stop herself, her patience wearing thin. “Forgive me for not personally delivering your gowns on a silver platter.”

Clarice’s icy voice cut in before Marissa could reply. “Watch your tone, Sloane. If you can’t handle simple tasks, perhaps we need to revisit your…position here.”

Sloane’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her position . They loved to remind her of her place, as if she didn’t already feel the weight of it every single day.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” she said quietly, scooting in her chair.

“You’re not eating yet,” William barked, his gaze finally snapping to hers. He didn’t hide the irritation in his tone.

Actually, Sloane was surprised he said anything at all. More and more in the past year, William had been silent and agitated during meals, often excusing himself for angry phone calls or not even showing up for dinner.

William turned to Marissa. “Have you given Sloane your list of needs for Paris yet?”

Sloane’s head jerked up. “Paris?”

“Next week. My graduation trip.” Marissa said, her lips curling into a smug smile.

Marissa was still at least four more classes from graduating college with her communication degree. She’d grown bored of the whole process of doing actual work , so Sloane doubted she’d finish at all. As a matter of fact, if Sloane had money to bet, she’d place it on the fact that Marissa had only gone to college at all to rub in Sloane’s face that she wanted to go but couldn’t.

An art history degree wasn’t in Sloane’s future.

She knew better than to point out any of that. “I hope you’ll have a good time.”

Her heart twisted with a mix of longing and bitterness. Paris—the city of light, art, and romance. She’d dreamed of going there ever since she was a little girl, poring over her mother’s collection of travel and art books.

“You’re going too,” William added, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

For a moment, hope flared in Sloane’s chest. But it was extinguished almost as quickly as it came.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Clarice said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. “You’ll be there to assist Marissa. Carry her bags, fetch her coffee, make sure she’s on schedule. That sort of thing.”

Pretend to be her if she gets into trouble and take all the blame for it.

Nobody said it, but they all knew it was the case. It had been Sloane’s role more than once.

“Exactly,” Marissa chimed in, her smile widening. “Think of it as a working vacation. For me, at least.”

“Understood,” she murmured, staring down at her food. She forced herself to eat it, even though it was barely a step above gruel—plain chicken breast and rice.

She had no idea why William and Clarice insisted the cook prepare Sloane a different meal from what they ate. Obviously, they did it to reinforce Sloane’s status in the household, and they made Sloane pay for the ingredients. But it was probably costing them more to have the staff prepare entirely separate, if tasteless, meals for her.

Petty was more than just a word rhyming with the family name around here.

“Good,” William said, turning his attention back to his meal. “Make sure she’s prepared, Clarice. I won’t have her embarrassing us. And you two are to stay together at all times.”

Marissa leaned forward, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Oh, and Sloane? While we’re there, you’ll need to steam my outfits every morning. I can’t be seen with wrinkles.”

“Of course,” Sloane said tightly.

“And polish my shoes,” Marissa added. “I have a new pair of Louboutins. You can’t let the soles get scuffed.”

Clarice nodded approvingly. “It’s about time you learned how to be useful, Sloane. Organization has never been your strong suit.”

Sloane’s nails dug into her palms beneath the table, but she forced a placid smile. They were baiting her hard tonight, but she wasn’t going to fall for it. She knew what would happen if she did, and she never won. “I’ll do my best to meet your high standards.”

Dinner dragged on, the conversation shifting to the details of Marissa’s Paris wardrobe and Clarice’s social calendar. Sloane remained silent, forcing herself to eat despite her appetite being long gone.

When the dessert plates were cleared—an exquisite chocolate mousse she hadn’t been offered—she finally excused herself. William barely glanced at her as she slipped out of the room. He was once again growling at his phone.

She climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, the sounds of the family’s laughter echoing faintly behind her. Her room, tucked away near the servants’ quarters, was a stark contrast to the grandeur below. The furniture was mismatched, the wallpaper peeling, and the single window was so small it hardly let in any light.

But it was hers. If only because her family found coming up here distasteful.

Sloane sank onto the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. She reached for the worn photo of her mother tucked inside a book on the nightstand. The edges were frayed, and the colors had faded over time, but her mother’s warm smile was as vivid as ever.

“Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I miss you so much.”

She traced her mother’s face with her thumb, memories flooding her mind. Her mother’s laughter, the way she used to braid Sloane’s hair while humming a lullaby, the scent of her favorite lavender perfume.

She had no idea how her mother had gotten into the trouble she had before she died, the trouble Sloane was still paying the price for here, but that didn’t mean she loved her mom any less.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t change anything.

The storm outside picked up, rain lashing against the windowpane. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the small room for a brief moment.

Sloane clutched the photo to her chest, her jaw set. Someday, she vowed, she would find a way out of this life. Someday, she would be free.

For now, she would focus on the fact that she was getting to go to Paris. Even if it was only as a glorified servant, she would take it.