Stealing From Me For Her Son Chapter 1

Fresh out of prep school and heading into my freshman year at NYU, my parents decided I needed a "support system." That support system came in the form of Mrs. Albright, a live-in housekeeper they hired to make sure I didn't subsist entirely on iced coffee and takeout.

The arrangement imploded the day I brought home a new handbag. It was a sleek, limited-edition piece—retail price: seven thousand dollars.

When Mrs. Albright found out the price tag, she didn't just disapprove; she detonated.

"You are spending my son's money!" she shrieked, her face turning a blotchy red. "Seven grand for a bag? You’re ruining this family before you’ve even started."

I blinked, genuinely confused. "Excuse me? Your son makes, what, three grand a month? Why would you think I'm using his money? My quarterly trust fund distribution is twenty grand a month. I spend what I want."

Mrs. Albright stood there, chest heaving with indignation, unable to form a coherent argument but clearly furious.

A week later, I noticed a few of my designer clutches were missing from the closet.

When I called her, she didn't even try to hide it. She sounded smug, almost self-righteous. "I sold them. If you want to marry my son, you need to learn how to be thrifty. I'm helping you save."

I hung up and dialed 911. Mrs. Albright stopped feeling so smug after that.

* * *

I’ve never been good with dorm life. The communal showers, the noise—it wasn't for me. Since my parents, Richard and Catherine, were constantly jet-setting for business, they bought me a pre-war condo in the Village and installed Mrs. Albright to keep the place running.

The day the dividend hit my account, I treated myself. I walked in the door, the Chanel shopping bag swinging from my arm.

Mrs. Albright was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She wiped her hands on her apron and zeroed in on the logo. "Blaire, honey, that looks expensive. How much did that set you back?"

I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the sofa, reaching for the remote. "About seven thousand."

The knife hit the cutting board with a violent thwack.

"Blaire!" She spun around, abandoning the dinner prep. "How can you be so reckless? Seven thousand dollars on a bag? That is my son's hard-earned money you're throwing away! He busts his back for three thousand a month, and you blow twice that on leather?"

I sat up, the remote dangling from my hand. I looked at her like she had grown a second head.

"Mrs. Albright," I said, my voice dropping to a cool, confused register. "I spent my money. What on earth does your son have to do with my finances? I get a five-figure allowance from the trust every month. If I want to burn it, that’s my business. You’re the housekeeper, not my financial advisor."

Her face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed crimson. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned back to the counter aggressively.

"Just make dinner, please," I said, turning on the TV. "Don't stress yourself out over things that don't concern you."

My parents really needed to vet their staff better.