Chapter 1: All Alone in The Dark

Twelve hours ago:

Amber’s pov:

“Sasha, my darling, Sam will be coming over with his father today, both his looks and his pockets are attractive…” I hear my stepmother, Gretchen Williams, from downstairs. She clinks her glass of champagne with her daughter, Sasha Williams. I hop down the stairs, my hands tracing the railings that run parallel to me thinking about how Sasha will have to follow in her mother’s footsteps into becoming the next gold-digger in line.

I say, “Good morning, Gretchen.” Trying my best to sound nice. Her response was, “Oh, sweetheart, you are up early. Got any new art show to attend today?” I know very well that if I respond with a “yes” I will be inviting my doom, so I just shake my head in the negative and grab my plate with assorted fruits. I eat, hurriedly, because I’ve got an art event to attend.

Running up the stairs, I pack my bag, take a quick cold shower, dress up and run back down.

Gretchen, in a sugarcoated sweet tone, says, “Sweetheart, where are you off to?”

I lie, “I’ve got a couple of errands to run at my part-time job, the supermarket.”

She cocks an eyebrow at me and enquires, “It is nine in the morning, your shift does not start before eleven. So, I will ask you again, where are you going?”

I lie, again, “I am going to the supermarket. There is an employee meeting which is compulsory to attend. I’m running late already, bye!” I bolt out of the door before she can stand in my path.

I head toward the art show which is being held at Rousey Art Gallery. Only influential people can get passes to such events, but since my mother, Kenna Williams, had been an art piece contributor for over seventeen years, I’ve got access to all the events.

The show lasted about an hour. It was marvelous. The portraits from the ‘80s were displayed galore. My craze for art began because of my mother. She was the true definition of an artist. She was good with all kinds of art; music, painting, etcetera.

Gretchen, on the other hand, hates art and artists. I know exactly why. Art is a constant reminder of my mother, and Gretchen does not want my father to think about her. That is also why she makes sure to cut off every path that I walk on to establish a successful art gallery.

I am drawn away from my thoughts as I hear a voice say, “Amber, my darling, you made it! Your mother would be so proud of you.” It is Rico, my mother’s ex-art publisher. I say, “Rico, thank you for the invite. When will the winners be announced?” Rico asks, “The winners of the ‘Art from the Heart’ competition?” I nod my head in the positive. He answers, “Tonight.”

We converse for about ten minutes until I head back toward my car. If I win the competition, then it will be my huge breakthrough because the winner will be fully funded to launch an art gallery of their own.

That has been my dream, forever. And I know that my mother would be proud of me. 

I sneak back into the house hoping that Gretchen wouldn’t notice. Thankfully, she didn’t. I thump down on my bed and unpack my bag. I open my laptop and look up the Rousey Art Gallery’s page.

Gretchen’s voice startles me, “Sasha! Get ready, Sam will be here in an hour.” Sasha screams from her room, “Beauty takes time and effort, mother.” They go on and on about Sam’s ideal type of girl and his huge fortune. I plug in my earphones and doze off.

“Ding!” The doorbell rings and wakes me up from my deep sleep. I hear some chatter. I open the door slightly and eavesdrop on the conversation.

Gretchen puts forth conditions, “Look, Mr. Alexander, I have made it clear that Sasha will only marry your son if he gives her a monthly allowance amounting to a couple of thousands, precious gemstones every birthday, and takes good care of her by appointing maids around the house for the chores. Also, the main part about the art-” Mr. Alexander, clearly repulsed, says, “Mrs. Williams, we don’t need you repeating the terms of the contract constantly.”

I think to myself, does she want to interfere with his art as well? What was the main part about?

That reminds me, Mr. Alexander is an active member of the art gallery, which means that he has a great hold on the contest. And he is a possible investor in my venture. I should make a good first impression because desperate times call for desperate measures.

When the clock strikes 6, I crawl back into my room and check the website, again. The wait is making me nervous.

After a few minutes, Mr. Alexander and his son retire from our mansion.

I sneak out of the back door and greet him, “Mr. Alexander, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I am Amber Williams, an active participant in the Art from the Heart contest.” He smiled, feebly. I continue, “It has always been my dream to open my art gallery. Ever since I was a child, it has been one of the only things that I have wanted to accomplish. I am willing to work hard and dedicate-“ He cuts me off with, “My child, it will be better if you pretend like we never met.”

Then, he walks away. I stare at him, dumb, as his chauffeur drives him away.

I stand by the main door to recollect my composure and unlock it. I shouldn’t have spoken to him. What was I thinking? Once I am in, I announce, “I’m home!” Sasha comes up to me and says, “Where were you?” I roll my eyes and say, “At the supermarket, working.” Sasha then says, “Really? Then, show me your employee ID.” Shoot! I forgot that in my room. I try to come up with an excuse, but it is of no use.

Gretchen comes forward and says, “Sweetheart, we know that you were conversing with Mr. Alexander about the contest. Did he cut you off?” Sasha and Gretchen laugh in evil.

Gretchen, in a mocking tone, says, “Did you think that you had a chance at winning the contest? Well, you did, but don’t forget, that I am here to make sure that you and art stay far, far away. That pathetic mother of yours was a bad influence on you-“ I slap her right across the face.

The door behind me unlocks and my father, Pietro Williams, walks in. Gretchen, pouring crocodile tears, hugs him, and says, “Pietro, your daughter is out of control. She slapped me.” My dad frowned at me. I say, “Because she was bad-mouthing my mother.”

Sasha says, “Father, all that mother was trying to convey is that Amber should focus more on a job rather than being engrossed with art. Because let’s face it, it is not a real job.”

Gretchen continues, “Honey, you know that I want the best for our daughters. Sasha will be married in less than a month to a rich household which will strengthen our hold in the business, but Amber needs to get a real job and earn well for herself or get married to a rich man soon.”

I say, “Dad, you know that I have been working on art for several years-“ He screams, “Enough!” The silence in the room makes me tense. He says, “Gretchen, you’re right. Amber has been working on art for over three years, but she has made no progress, it is time that she gets a real job. Or gets married into Mr. Samuel’s family. Now, Amber, apologize to Gretchen.”

I am dumbstruck. Did he just disregard my effort? It has taken me very long to get back to art; so much healing and so many sessions with the therapist. It is the one thing that keeps me sane and despite knowing all this, he is taking her side. My heart aches, but my mouth is shut.

I run back to my room.

The whole house is silent until dinner. At the table, Gretchen questions, “So, sweetheart, what have you decided? Marriage? Or a job?” I stab the steak on my plate, but I don’t say a thing. She reframes the question and asks in a sweeter tone. Ugh. I wish I could stab her instead.

With all my might, I say, “Gretchen, father, I have come to a decision.” They listen, eager for my answer. I stand firm, “I will continue my art venture.” Gretchen says, “But, sweetheart-“ My father cuts her off and says, “You are disrespecting my wife right now.” I say, “She was disrespecting your ex-wife a few hours ago.” He flings his plate. The sound of the glass plate hitting the ground scares me, and my heart rate increases. He says, calmly, “Look, Amber, if you want to stay in this house, you need to respect everyone. I am tired of your tantrums. Poor Gretchen cannot handle all the stress that you give her.”

I ask, “The stress that I give her? Mind justifying?”

He takes a deep breath and says, “She told me about you being a brat all the time. The way you harass Sasha and always ask her to speak softly, you complain about the servant’s way of working, and how you always interfere when Gretchen is trying to help you out. To top it all off, you do not help me in my business, your sister in her marriage, or your mother with her load of work.”

I scowl, “I can justify this. The way the servants wash the dishes and clean the carpets makes shrill sounds; you know that I am afraid of it. So, I asked them to tone it down, just once. Sasha speaks loudly on purpose to startle me. Also, I am working on my art. Every. Single. Day. Besides, Gretchen is not my mother and Sasha is not my sister.”

My father says, “Get out.” I say, “What?” He repeats, “Get. Out.” I try to ask him why, but he screams at the top of his lungs, “All you do is disrespect everyone, you are a disgrace to our family. You do not fit in, just like your mother. All she ever did was fantasize about becoming famous for her art. Now, I can’t deal with you Amber. You are twenty-three already, you don’t have a proper job, nor do you have a stable mental state. No one is going to marry you, and you don’t any skills to get hired. All that you have is a first-class degree in arts, what do you think you are going to accomplish with that, huh? Let me tell you, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Now, get out, and don’t ever set foot in my house ever again.”

Tears cloud my vision. I can barely see Gretchen and Sasha’s wide grins, but I know that this is a victory for them. My father and I have been distant since my mother’s death, but I did not know that the distance was vast enough for him to pick them over me.

I walk out of the house, with nothing. Absolutely nothing. I need nothing from this house. Gretchen, before shutting the door in my face, says, “In the contract, I forced Mr. Alexander to have you barred from the ‘Art from the Heart’ competition, forever. Also, congratulations, because you had won the competition but, oh well.”

I want to rip her to shreds, but I can’t. She’s not worth my energy. I wipe my tears. My mother would’ve wanted me to be strong. I walk, for what seems like an eternity, thinking about how fast things change, until I reach an alley.

There, at the dead end of the alley, I see a man, under the streetlight. He is punching another man. His hazel-colored eyes are alluring, and his fast moves hint at his amazing fighting skills.

But once he pulls out his guns and starts to fire, the fear drowns me, and I collapse.