My First Love, My Last Revenge

Jane Bradley POV:

I was sixteen when I first saw him. It was two years after we had moved into the Harvey mansion, two years of living as a ghost in the opulent hallways.

He walked in through the front door, sunlight framing him like a halo. He was tall, with wavy brown hair that fell across his forehead and a smile that seemed to warm the entire cavernous foyer. He was Booker Harvey, the older son, home from college.

"Dad! Kane!" he called out, dropping a duffel bag on the marble floor.

He wasn't surprised to see Cathleen, so he must have known about his father's remarriage.

"Booker, you're home," Mr. Harvey said, his face lighting up. He introduced Cathleen and Amiyah.

Booker was polite, charming. He shook Cathleen's hand and told Amiyah she was even prettier than in the pictures. Then his eyes, a warm, sparkling blue, found me. I was standing by the staircase, holding a dusting cloth, frozen in place.

He gave me a small, friendly wave.

I managed a shy smile in return, but by the time I did, his attention had already been captured by Kane, who clapped him on the back. "You're finally back, man!"

"Who's that?" I heard Booker ask his brother in a low voice, nodding in my direction. "The new maid?"

"Worse," Kane muttered back, just loud enough for me to hear. "She's the stepsister. The one with the deadbeat parents. Dad calls her Cathleen's charity case."

I felt my cheeks burn with shame. I slipped away into the kitchen, my rightful place. The sound of their happy, reunited laughter followed me. I didn't belong in that picture of familial bliss.

Dinner was a formal affair. I automatically moved to eat in the kitchen with the cook and the other staff.

"Hey."

I turned. Booker was standing in the doorway. "There's a seat for you at the table."

I hesitated, looking past him towards the dining room where Cathleen and Mr. Harvey were already seated. They hadn't said a word. It was an unspoken rule that I did not eat with the family.

"It's okay," Mr. Harvey called out, noticing my hesitation. "Come on, Jane, sit down."

Nervously, I got a plate and slipped into the empty chair beside Booker. The conversation flowed around me. I kept my head down, focusing on the food.

"So, Cathleen," Booker said suddenly, his voice casual but with an edge. "I hear Jane's been a great help around the house. Practically running the place."

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. My heart began to pound. This was a test. A trap.

He then reached over and placed a piece of roasted chicken on my plate. "You're too thin. You should eat more."

I was terrified. His kindness was a spotlight, and I knew what happened to people who stood in the spotlight in this house.

Cathleen forced a tight smile. "Yes, she's a very... diligent girl. We'll be sure to... take good care of her."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her shoot me a look. It was pure venom. A promise of retribution.

Booker just smiled. "Good."

I spent the rest of the meal staring at my plate, the food tasteless in my mouth. I didn't dare look at Cathleen.

As soon as dinner was over, I fled to my room. It wasn't long before the door opened and Cathleen slipped inside.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, her voice a low snarl.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play dumb with me. Seducing him? On his first night home?"

"I didn't! I've never even met him before tonight!"

"Then why is he being so nice to you?" she demanded, grabbing my arm. "Why is he paying attention to you?"

"I don't know," I whispered, truthfully.

"Listen to me," she said, her face close to mine. "You stay away from Booker Harvey. He is out of your league. You are nothing. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I said, my voice barely audible. "I understand."

She let go of my arm and swept out of the room. I stood there, trembling, when I noticed a shadow in the hallway, just outside my door. It was him. It was Booker.

He had been standing there. He had heard everything.

And in that moment, I understood. His kindness at dinner hadn't been random. It had been a performance. A deliberate act to provoke Cathleen. I didn't know why. I didn't know if he was my savior or just a boy who enjoyed stirring up trouble.

The next day, I was weeding the garden when he came out to the patio with a book.

"What's your name again?" he asked, not looking up from his page.

"Jane," I said quietly.

"Jane," he repeated. "Just Jane. Your parents weren't very creative, were they?"

I flinched. My parents gave my sister a pretty name, Kallie. I was just Jane. "No, I guess not."

"Have you ever been to school, Jane?"

"No."

"Can you read?"

"A little. Simple words."

He finally looked at me, his blue eyes searching my face. "Is she mean to you? Cathleen."

I instinctively glanced towards the house. And there she was, a silhouette in the living room window, watching.

"No," I said, my voice suddenly louder, more cheerful. "No, she's wonderful. Cathleen and Mr. Harvey, they're both so good to me. They saved me." The words felt like poison on my tongue.

Booker watched me, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He knew I was lying.

"I'm moving out," he said casually. "My dad has a condo for me downtown. Closer to the office. I was thinking of taking you with me."

My heart stopped. Leave? Leave this house? The idea was so intoxicating, so terrifying, I couldn't breathe. But to go with him? A boy I didn't know, a boy who played games I didn't understand.

"I... I can't," I stammered. "I have no money. I can't live on my own."

I didn't trust him. Not completely. He was like a beautiful, dangerous animal. You didn't know if he wanted to feed you or eat you.

"Think about it," he said, standing up. "When you've made up your mind, come find me."

He went inside. A moment later, Cathleen was marching across the lawn.

"What did he say to you?" she demanded.

I knew there was a war between them, an unspoken battle for power in this house. I was just a pawn. "He asked my name," I said, choosing my words carefully. "And he said he was moving out soon."

She eyed me with suspicion but seemed satisfied with that. She turned and went back inside.

The next morning at breakfast, Booker made his announcement. "Dad, I'm going to move into the downtown apartment." He asked for the keys.

"You're not going to live here anymore?" Mr. Harvey asked, looking disappointed.

"It's closer to the office," Booker said smoothly. He had already been given a cushy position at his father's company.

"I'll send one of the maids with you, to cook and clean," his father offered.

Booker shook his head. "No, thanks." He looked directly at me. "I'll take Jane."

The silence at the table was deafening. I felt every eye on me. I didn't know what to do, whether to nod or shake my head. My fate was being decided for me, once again.

"Can she even take care of you?" Cathleen sneered.

"She'll be fine," Booker said with unshakable confidence. He stood up. "Let's go, Jane."

He was already walking towards the door. It was happening. I was leaving.

"Wait, your luggage," he said, turning to me.

I looked down at my worn-out clothes. "I don't need anything from here," I said. "We can buy new things."

He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile. "I like the way you think."

As I walked out of that house, I felt a dizzying sense of freedom. I looked at the city through the car window, every building, every person a marvel.

Booker took me to a mall. He bought me everything. Jeans, sweaters, dresses, shoes, underwear. I had never owned a new piece of clothing in my life. I stood in the fitting room, staring at myself in a soft, blue sweater, and I started to cry.

He found me there, tears streaming down my face. He didn't say anything. He just gently wiped them away with his thumb.

In that moment, whatever doubts I had about him vanished. He was my savior.

He took care of me. He was worried I was too skinny, so he learned to cook, filling our small apartment with the smell of rich, nutritious food. "If I ever have a daughter," he'd say, "I'm going to make sure she's plump and happy."

He taught me. He bought books and notebooks and sat with me for hours, teaching me to read, to write, to do math, to speak English without a tremor of fear in my voice.

"You're a fast learner," he'd praise, and I would glow with pride.

One evening, I asked him, "Can you give me a new name?"

He thought for a moment, then wrote a word on a piece of paper. Lemon.

"It's a little sour, a little sweet," he said, smiling. "Just like you."

"I love it," I whispered, tracing the letters with my finger. "Thank you, Booker."

He was my everything. My teacher, my friend, my protector. My world. And I was falling hopelessly in love with him.