Unlike the tall glass panes that wrapped around Walters Architecture like a chocolate shell, the Walters mansion was classic. White walls, grated windows that were always wide and open because the size of the lot alone provided all the privacy needed. There were large pillars that marked the door as a grand entryway—fierce, but ornate—similar to a lion's mane.

    I didn't bother to knock on the sable wood doors that were dark and freshly painted; people came and went through the house so often, paint jobs were frequent. As always, security pulled open the doors for me with a smile. Every morning since my sixteenth birthday, I bought each member of my family's personal security team a cup of coffee. Starbucks, Tom Hortons, it didn't matter where the coffee came from; I always brought it.

    "Michael, Cherie." Graciously, I nodded in approval as I stepped through the doors that were still being held open.

    "Albany."

Michael, our middle-aged bodyguard, smirked as he returned my nod. He wasn't allowed to be unprofessional with anyone else in the house—except for Willa and Brandon. Willa because she was still young at twelve years-old and occasionally required a source of amusement. Brandon because, like me, he couldn't contain himself from befriending the people that guarded our family on a regular basis.

If we didn't befriend them, they would be strangers, and spending time with them would be odd and out of place, rather than fun and amusing. It was the only way Brandon and I agreed to handle security—which was fine with our father as long as we took one of them with us when we left. Which I made a frequent habit of not doing—not that he would know. He was always working with Anthony, Andy, and mom.

"Steal some pretty jewelry, while you were gone?" Michael teased as I stalked towards the kitchen.

"No." I laughed. Others might find it annoying, but I always found the questions Michael asked me after I took an excursion without him or Cherie entertaining. Since they didn't know where I was going, he always enjoyed assuming the worst. I don't know why. He would be the one to get in trouble.

"I don't know, Cherie. That necklace Al is wearing looks awfully nice," Michael said with faux suspicion.

My heart swelled at the sound of the nickname Michael gave me when I was child. It was the only form of public endearment my parents would allow between us. No hugs. No picking me up, unless an endangerment of my safety caused a need for it. In some ways, my nickname was all Michael and I had to show for our decade-long friendship. Our laughs and boisterous jibes were hidden from the public along with my parents.

"I'm not wearing a necklace." I rolled my eyes and strutted into the kitchen past Cherie. My heels clicked against the impeccable tile floors.

Cherie sported a hidden grin as I passed her; she was still as a sentinel as she stood next to the kitchen doorway.

"She isn't," Cherie coughed out, patting Michael roughly on the shoulder as he followed me into the kitchen.

"Of course she is! It's spectacular and invisible—just like she is!"

"Thanks." I rolled my eyes.

I walked to the kitchen island that was long with a slab of marble and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. The bowl was filled to the brim with a mixture of juicy apples and perfect bananas—intentionally, of course. My mouth watered in satisfaction as my teeth sank into the honey-sweet flesh. A pleasant hum slipped from my lips, and I smiled lazily at Cherie and Michael, who were now perched with amused expressions in the doorway.

"What?" I said with a full mouth. Sticky juice ran down my thumb from the bitten fruit, and I shamelessly licked it away with my tongue.

Their quiet chuckles filled the space, and Cherie was quick to fetch me a napkin from the table across the room.

"Thank you, but you're not my servant," I said when she handed me the napkin.

"Nor would I want to be. I may be a bodyguard, but I do have some traits of human decency, Albany."

I nodded, wiping off my sticky fingers. "Of course."

Quiet and soft tapping from Michael's boots filled the room as I continued to take small, calculated bites of the apple. After silent minutes passed, Cherie finally released a loud and impatient huff of air and pulled out the barstool next to where I was standing. Her boots thumped hard against the tile as she sat down, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I knew what was coming next.

As expected, when I turned my head to my left, Cherie was staring at me expectantly. Spill, her silence demanded.

"I didn't do anything illegal," I said in response to her silent question.

Her lips pressed into a tight line; she wasn't amused.

"Obviously. You're a good kid."

"Good," I said dryly.  I mindlessly shifted my gaze to the disfigured apple that had several chunks missing from its skin.

"Albany."

I looked up into Cherie's stormy eyes that were dark as night. A frown pursed my lips, and I sighed in defeat. It wasn't worth the battle.

"Fine. I got a job at the bookstore in Downtown LA." It was hard to hide my excitement as I spoke these words. For once I had something I earned. Something that was mine and didn't belong to my family. The feeling was thrilling.

Cherie belched forward at the same time that Michael broke out into rounds of obnoxious applause. "You did what?!!" she fumed as he cheered in the background, "Congrats, kid!"

A spark ignited in my eyes, and I glanced at Michael, who was leaning with relaxed posture against the doorway. Only one word could describe how I felt at that moment.

"Thank you," I said quietly. Red flush filled my cheeks with heat, and I was quick to avert my eyes towards the ground.

"No!" Cherie reprimanded Michael. "Don't encourage her! You know better than I do how dangerous it is for her to wander the streets without protection—let alone how dangerous it would be for her to work at a public place such as a bookstore." Her words were pleading, begging. Cherie didn't enjoy hurting me anymore than Michael did. But it didn't mean that she wouldn't hurt me to 'protect' me, as she saw it.

Cherie's mouth sank into a deep frown, and she shot a glare in my direction. She loathed when I put my safety in danger.

I shook my head and frowned. "I didn't go alone, and it wasn't dangerous. I went to a bookstore, Cherie. Not some extravagant party in Hollywood."

She pursed her lips and released a low growl directed at Michael.

"Say something." She gritted her teeth, giving Michael a meaningful glance.

Exhausted, having gone over this argument for the sixth time just this week alone, Michael sighed, rubbing the soft area of skin between his eyebrows.

"She's just a kid, Cher. You have to let her live her life, or she will find a way to live without us."

I couldn't help the grimace that crossed my face. As enchanting as it was to dream about attending college at Berkeley and opening my own fashion business one day, it was also terrifying. Berkeley had security on campus so I would no longer need the luxury of two on-call bodyguards. I would be leaving behind two of the only people who were around long enough to greet me, when I came home, and cared enough to ask about my day. The thought of leaving them behind was unbearable, as much as they annoyed me, particularly Cherie.

"You think I don't want her to experience the world without us breathing down her neck? If it was even reasonably plausible, I would consider the idea—but she isn't just some girl who happens to be wandering around LA.

"She is the daughter of Robert Walters, one of the richest men in the continental United States. People know her face. Big, scary people, who would kidnap her, to ransom her back to her dad for millions. So, no, Albany can't work at a local bookstore. I don't care how small it is."

My eyes widened in surprise and sudden anger. This job was mine. It wasn't something that my parents could just rip away. Again. I wouldn't let them take it away. I wouldn't.

"Well, I do care," I snarled. "This is my job. Besides, I already accepted it. You're too late," I said with bitter satisfaction.
Cherie's eyes flashed in anger.

"Then take it back," she said slowly, with a threatening and dangerous amount of control in her voice. "Repeal your application, and reject the job. Now."

"No."

"Albany!" Cherie hissed, pounding a fist against the counter. "Stop being difficult for once in your life! I will not be the one to explain to your parents that you got some job working with the general public. It doesn't just put you at risk, but your family. So, please. For once, just listen to me." Her harsh shouts faded into a soft plea as she spoke her final words. Please, her voice begged me.

I bowed my head towards the tile and chewed on my lip with sudden need. Like many things, I wanted to give Cherie what she wanted. I wanted to give her what she would need to be happy—which in this case meant giving up the only thing I could call mine. But I couldn't give this to her.

This job. This new source of income. It was the only thing that I could honestly and truly call mine, after years of living off of my parents. I wasn't ready to give it up. Not now. Maybe, not ever.

"I can't." I whispered to the ground.

"Albany—" she warned.

"I said I can't!" I moaned, turning my head to bulge my eyes at her desperately. "I can't," I repeated quietly to myself.

A deep, mournful sigh groaned from her mouth, and a hand fell silently on my shoulder.

"Then, what do we do?" She said in a softer tone. It wasn't demanding or harsh; it was no longer commanding me to do things against my will. It was simply asking.

"Well, that depends." I sucked in a harsh breath. "Can you two keep a secret?"

Wary glances passed between them like bullets. Can we? Was the silent question I read between their expressions. And they could—I knew that much. The real question was, Should they? Was my safety truly in danger? I didn't think so, but they always had a tendency to disagree with my judgements, where my safety was concerned. It was rather annoying.
Finally, after moments of unhappy grunts and sideways glances, Cherie and Michael nodded their heads. Though, Cherie's bob up and down was begrudging.

"Than—" I started to say, when the kitchen door slammed shut.

With a condescending smirk, my only sister stepped away from the door.

"What was it that I heard about secrets?" She asked with a too-innocent expression and perfectly arched eyebrows. Her bones still jut out from years of chemo.

It wasn't there yet, but I knew what was coming next. The blackmail, the obvious trade that she was or wasn't going to offer me, depending on whether I had something she wanted. Either way, if things went south, I was sure of one thing: she would tell our parents about my job. And then, with a final air of authority, they would take it away.

With a howl of frustration and anger, I slammed my hand against the counter. Then, with the most menacing expression I could muster, I turned to glare at Willa.