Chapter 4Quit Competing for Love, Parents Regret

I tuned out the noise downstairs.

In my room, I began to pack.

I didn't have much. The traces of my existence in this house were pathetic.

Most of the clothes and items were things Mother had the housekeeper buy in bulk when I returned—expensive, but chosen with zero thought.

There was only one small, battered suitcase containing the old clothes I brought from my foster home and a photo album.

It held the only picture I had with my foster parents.

In the photo, they held a skinny, scrawny me, their faces wrinkled with smiles, their eyes full of love.

That was my real warmth.

I rubbed my thumb over the photo, my eyes stinging.

After I was abducted, the traffickers dumped me halfway because a girl wasn't "worth much." My foster parents saved me and raised me.

Tragically, they died in a car accident earlier this year. It was the news coverage of that accident that allowed the Vanderbilts to find me.

Sometimes, I wished they never had.

I carefully tucked the album into the bottom of the suitcase.

I took out my bank book. It held the savings from my part-time jobs and the small inheritance my foster parents left me. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to get me to Alaska and cover my first semester’s rent.

I didn't intend to spend a single penny of Vanderbilt money.