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chapter one confessions of a rich bitch
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Isadora Windsor liked to think she didn't need anyone. It was an old state of mind which she adopted when she was young, but it stuck with her throughout her teenage years. Because truth be told, she had been taking care of herself ever since her mother died and her father decided to replace the growing void in their family with credit cards. So Izzy decided from that point on that she didn't need her father to tell her everything was going to be all right because everything was certainly not going to be okay, it was going to be just meh. And she was fine with that. She could handle her life being just mediocre if it meant she didn't have to deal with anyone weighing her down with their feelings.
As far as Izzy was concerned, she didn't need anyone crying to her about their breakups or her father calling her to check in from whatever country he was visiting as if he actually cared. She had more than enough to deal with; she didn't need to deal with his half-assed check-ins, too. She had to deal with living every day, slowly turning into a carbon copy of her mother. She'd look in the mirror and be reminded of the past—the past which seemed to haunt her throughout the years. Except she wasn't her mother, that much was clear.
Save for her looks, Izzy was not Julia. Izzy was Izzy. She was incorrigible, reckless, moody, and quite frankly, a spoiled bitch. She seemed to be a different person every year. Like the way seasons changed every few months, Izzy was all sunny and warm like a beam of inveterate light one year, and then she'd morphed into a winter solstice the next. But despite the differences, Izzy would always look like her mother . . . there was no running away from that. Every time she looked in the mirror, she was reminded just how much they looked alike which reminded her of how much of a disappointment she was compared to her, and then she'd be stuck in this ouroboros state of mind which she couldn't escape.
She found herself dwelling in those thoughts that afternoon as she reclined on a beach towel on one of the many beaches in North Carolina. The sun beat down on her tan skin, heating the blood in her veins and engulfing her in a feeling of bliss. The smell of the ocean water and the sunscreen slathered on her body always brought comfort to her, especially when paired with the warm rays of the sun and the slight breeze which grazed over the surface of her skin every few minutes. But she found it harder to focus on the feeling of the sun on her skin when her thoughts were consumed by memories of her mother.
