It was no secret that Rosaline Lowe had a thing for younger men and she changed them as frequently as she changed her clothes. She moved from one celebrity to another, showering them with her wealth and flaunting them like the shiny new toys they were.
That was until…him. I had never seen my mother so taken by a man.
This one was different. He carried himself with grace, power, dominance, and confidence that one rarely found in people. He wasn't like all those other ticks who leeched off of my mother.
This one was richer than Rosaline. He was a billionaire aristocrat in London who owned more businesses than one could count—some inherited, while others he had founded himself.
I didn't understand why he would want to be attached to a woman like my mother. She was known as a famous problematic woman who was involved in countless scandals. He tainted his reputation just by being married to me.
Despite the marriage, I had seen Julian Thorn Pembroke once. It was only during his marriage to my mother which was a small ceremony unlike what Mother wanted. I heard her yelling at him about it and he barely reacted.
He was the only man who could handle her dramatic outbursts.
As I sat in his black sleek private jet headed to London, I mourned the life I was leaving behind. I had just my whole life behind and I wasn't happy about it. My friends, my connections, and everything I had built all my life I had left behind.
My stepfather was to blame. He rarely saw my mother and yet he accepted to take me under his wing. I didn't understand why he would take a girl he thought was problematic. Maybe he wanted to protect his aristocratic name.
I furiously texted all my friends, knowing they wouldn't get the messages until I landed. I threatened them, letting them know I wanted to know who dared to leak the story and my pictures.
I was an 'it' girl and no one dared to mess with me. Something had changed and I wanted to know what it was.
The flight was longer than I imagined. I almost couldn't take it anymore. When we arrived, I was more miserable than I had been before and I still didn't understand why I had to move. My mother had been through a few scandals. This one would be no different to navigate.
I was even more miserable when my Ugg-clad feet landed on the ground in London. My slim fit beige consisting of a pair of cotton pants and a cropped sweater did nothing to shield me from the cold air there.
The huge Loewe sunglasses over my eyes and LV bags and suitcases seemed to shock the entourage that was waiting by the runway when I got off the plane. There were a total of six men standing by two SUVs and two more standing by a sleek extravagant Rolls Royce.
The whole entourage screamed of royalty and money.
"Welcome Ms. Lowe. Mr. Thorne sent us here to come and get you. My name is Edward but you can call me Eddie. I am your butler." A man, in his mid-50s, said.
He rushed toward me with an umbrella in hand since it was pouring.
I snickered as he waved his hands and one man stepped forward to take my bags. They loaded them in an SUV and the door to the backseat of the Rolls Royce was opened.
"Thank you for coming for me," I said to him even though I was irritated. I was shivering. I didn't think London would be that cold in February.
How was I going to rock crop tops and miniskirts in that weather?
He snapped his fingers and someone took out a coat and handed it to him.
"Would you like me to help you put it on?" He asked. "Mr. Thorne thought you wouldn't have carried a coat."
I rolled my eyes at the statement. Of course, my stepfather knew that. Could he be more insufferable?
I allowed the man to help me put on the coat that somehow fit me perfectly and then I got into the car. As soon as I was inside, I was handed a cup of hot chocolate as the car took off.
London was beautiful. It was nothing like the crowded streets of LA and the terrible traffic. The further we drove, the less people and buildings I saw. There was no greenery around and it was raining.
The air was fresh and it reeked of success and wealth, especially after I passed the first few majestic mansions.
When we finally arrived by the wrought-iron gates, I saw the words: Greystone Hollow written. That was the name of the estate. There was a long gravel drive with topiary gardens and limestone fountains before we reached the mansion.
"Welcome to Greystone Hollow. This will be your home from now on." Mr. Edward said.
The manor looked ancient because it had been built in the 17th century. The house is built in honey-colored Cotswold stone, with ivy crawling up its façade. It was multi-chimneyed, with mullioned windows, and an arched central doorway.
I didn't see the whole estate but I knew it had a seven-car garage, stables, a helipad tucked beyond the gardens, and a private lake. It was unbelievable how much the whole place reeked of old money and unreachable status.
I found out all this by doing a simple Google search that revealed a magazine called Luxury Homes that broke down Julian's estate. I liked knowing where I was going before I arrived.
"This is not my new home. It is only temporary."
I didn't mean to sound bratty when I said that to Edward but it came out that way. While I was used to staff, butlers, and chauffeurs due to the celebrity status of my mother, it was nothing compared to Greystone Hollow.
The staff that was there to greet me included; Edward (Head Butler), two footmen, a private Chef, Mrs. Holloway the Housekeeper, four maid staff, a personal wardrobe attendant, a private chauffer, groom and stable staff, and estate groundskeeper and gardeners.
There were so many that I couldn't even remember all their names.
"We have prepared a room for you that is suited to your taste and preferences," Edward said as he led me to my room.
The manor was huge with a vintage style and a lot of antiques.
My room was in the East wing overlooking the sloping lawns and wildflower meadows. My canopy bed sat at the centre — four-poster carved dark wood, draped with sheer ivory linen and raw silk.
The walls are painted faint dove grey with antique oil portraits. French doors opened to a private balcony overlooking a private rose garden, with the distant roll of the hills beyond.
One corner was a velvet reading nook and another held a vintage vanity with a gold-plated brush set. A walk-in fireplace roared softly, lit before I arrived, no doubt to shield me from the cold air that was in London.
When they said my suite was according to my preferences, I expected my bedroom to be painted pink but it wasn't. They didn't know what I liked.
"Get settled in while your private chef makes you a meal."
"Where's my step-daddy?" I asked sarcastically.
His image was fleeting in my mind since I had only seen him once. The pictures I saw online were too little for me to form an idea of him in my memory.
"He's busy."
I let out another snicker. If my mother heard me, she would scold me for not having proper manners, but she surely, she could understand. How was he too busy to welcome a house guest?