Lovell, Lola

Lola Lovell lived in a caring adoption agency all of her life. Twelve years later, she is finally adopted by a young, stuck-up, cruel and stone-hearted rich couple, Charlotte and Brandon Wickerson. But they're not actually all that evil...well Brandon is not anyway. Three weeks into Lola's new life, Charlotte goes away on a business trip and Lola and Brandon are left alone for three days. He shoes his true colours and confesses a secret to Lola: he is secretly in love with her. But is this real or is he just desperate for someone to take Charlotte's place while she's missing?


1. Chapter One

I'm just a girl. I'm just a twelve-year-old-girl. I'm just human. I'm not Supergirl. I'm me, Lola Lovell. And my surname, it does not mean anything. Names only carry the personality of characters in stories. Names mean nothing in the real world. My name, Lovell, it somehow carries symbolism but it really means zilch. Or does it? Is this world really a reality or are we all in some kind of dream? Are we all really lost in our La La Lands, with the lines blurred that separates between real and the fake? What is real and what is fake? If I am only living in a cloud of imagination, a dream, then my new life started out to be a nightmare.




"Lola?" called a deep, masculine voice from upstairs. "Lola?" I quietly darted across the large, open living room and dived under the dining table.

    "Lola?" called the voice again with a slight tone of anger. "Lola?" My eyes locked in position on the staircase as I watched underneath a beautifully carved wooden chair that belonged to the dining room table. As the tall, slim figure emerged, I was startled and bumped my head on the chair.

    "Get out!" the man demanded. I obeyed him. Slowly and shakily, I crawled out from under the table. Is he gonna hurt me? Will I be in trouble? What will he do? Tears formed as I thought this over.

    "Why?" he asked. Just simply Why? I looked up at him but I did not respond. I looked down again, blinking my eyes, for eye contact with him burnt them. They were stinging. I was in pain, already.

    "Why?" he repeated, but this time, it was louder. I open and shut my mouth a few times, trying to speak, but I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say and I was too scared to mutter a word anyway. He placed his tough hands on my waist and dragged me up. I screamed for I was afraid he was about to hit me. I wriggled to try to escape but, as always, there was no use. He turned his head away from me for a second and inhaled a large breath. He stepped back and continued with, "Pack my wife's suitcase." I shuffled out of the dinning room, zombified, then the world came back to me as I entered the living room. I climbed upstairs and did as I was told.


Now, you are probably wondering why I have to pack someone else's suitcase, right? Well the answer to that is simple: they adopted me. I'm not familiar with why my parents gave me up or what they were even like, but I guarantee they would be nicer than the Rich Bitches (I like to call them that). I am practically the maid in this household. Actually, no, I bet maids receive more respect. Well, at least they get paid, right? But I, I get nothing. The Big Zero. But I must be grateful for the fact that they at least give me an education. But I am not allowed to make friends nor tell anyone what goes on between the walls of this house. It sucks, but at least I live in an amazing house. I am glad these two stuck-ups that own me are not the messy kind, so I do not have to clean up much. But wouldn't I be used to it after all these years, you ask? What years? I have in fact only been living in this house and playing the role of a servant for three weeks, I am only new.


After I had finished packing Mrs. Wickerson's suitcase, I slowly opened Mr. Wickerson's bedside table and stole (although I wouldn't call it stealing for it is used to satisfy them, not just myself) fifty dollars that I hid in my skirt's pocket. I headed downstairs, grabbed a broom and walked out the front door, pretending like I was about to sweep the pavement in our front yard. But instead, I scanned the exterior of the house (which surprisingly fits in with the rest of the houses. It is hard to believe for its interior is enormous!) to find any supervisors, dropped the broom when I was certain no one was watching from inside and bolted.

    There were three take-away stores on the street we lived in. They were next to each other, like as if they were owned by the same company. They might have been, I'm not sure. One was Chinese, one was Thai and the other was Japanese. I loved sushi, it was my favourite food. I'd had it once with the kids at Adopt An Angel, the adoption agency I lived in practically my whole life. But unfortunately, the Wickersons do not like sushi, so I cannot eat it for they would believe I am selfish, 'cooking' another meal that is for just myself. Instead, I opened the door to the Thai shop.

    "Hello, miss, what can I get you?" asked the man behind the counter with an Asian accent. The shopkeepers were always kind, but I had no time to talk--I barely had time to buy the food.

    "May I have three chicken green curries, please?" I was raised up to always be polite, no matter how impolite my 'caretakers' were.

    "Sure thing, darling. That would be thirty dollars," he explained. I handed the money that I clenched to as tight as I could.

    "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you are ten dollars short," he pointed out. I blushed. I must have dropped it on the way! Shit! I thought. I couldn't buy dinner, I had no money of my own. I couldn't just sneak back into the Wickersons' bedroom and sneak out ten more dollars.

    "I am so sorry," I apologised. "I have no money! I, to tell you the truth, I stole it from the adults. I have no money of my own. Oh, no! What if Mr. Wickerson finds the ten dollars? He always leaves this micro symbol on all his dollar notes and he will know it is his! I don't know why he does it, but he does. And he'll blame me, he'll punish me! Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd murder me--or worse, let me die in a slow, intoxicating and torturous death!" I started hyperventilating. I had asthma. I was pacing and waving my hands frantically, fretting. Growing anxious. Breathing rapidly, my heart trying to keep up with my breathing pattern. I could collapse in a stroke. Then I'd be dead for sure. At least I wouldn't have to die painfully. I was now purposely trying to give myself a heart attack.

    "Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap!" I muttered repeatedly, thinking just die, just die, just collapse, just die, just end my world right now, I can't take this, I don't want to take this. Just die, you stupid body!

    "You know what?" the shopkeeper said, worried about me but unsure on how to take me. "Take this. For free. Keep the money...or give it back to Mr. Wickerson, don't worry. Thirty dollars is nothing."

    "Oh my gosh! Are you sure?" I asked in awe.

    "Of course! You're always so polite anyway. You're actually the politest customer I have. Consider it a gift, thanking you for your kind citizenship."

    "Oh, thank you so much! You're so kind! This is so generous! You might have saved my life! THANK YOU!" I bounced in glee. On the last thank you, I ran around the counter to hug him, I was that happy! "Oh, sorry! Was that too friendly?"

    "No, no, it is absolutely fine, Lola," he assured. The way he spoke my name, it gave me butterflies, only because I hadn't heard it said sweetly--he only knew my name because he knows the Rich Bitches but he is really good friends with me so I can trust him to keep my secret--in a week. He was the highlight of my week. I loved this street, Bel Street. I like to call it Bel Air because, you know, the place in America called Bel Air. Plus it is a song by one of my favourite artists. And the name, the two words themselves, are just gorgeous to read and gorgeous to say/hear. It was just a shame that the Rich Bitches live here. I'd much rather live on my own.

    I glanced at my watch that displayed 6:25. Dinner starts at six thirty, so I only have five minutes to get home.

    "Apologies Mr. Taj, but I must leave. I only have five minutes!"

    "That is alright dear, I will see you again soon!"

    "Thank you! Yes, see you!" I screamed as I ran out. My sandals made these loud tramping sounds as I ran. Each time I slammed my feet onto the ground, they were hit with a small wave of shock that got larger the more I ran. The motion was tiring, I was puffing. When I reached close enough, I dived onto the grass of our beautiful front yard. The sudden hit of the ground onto my body was hard, but all I felt was stinging relief in my aching feet. I slowly crawled to the front door, trying to slow down my breathing pattern as it looked like I just ran a marathon. My asthma did not help the situation. Still on the ground, I reached for the doorknob. It was not particularly easy, but I succeeded. I was pulling on it with both hands, the bags with the curries hanging on my left arm like a handbag. I was lifting myself up slowly, but I was also turning the doorknob. The door was creaking open and I was loosing my grip, my heavy body being dragged by the door. My hands let go and I thumped onto the cold wooden floor that belonged to the unoccupied living room. I was now able to get up and did so. I softly closed the door behind me and quickly tip-toed to. The kitchen which was also unoccupied. Where are they? I queried in my mind as I pulled out three bowls from the dish draw. I poured one container's content into one bowl, pushed it aside and repeated for the other two. I then disposed the containers and pulled out three plates, knives, forks and spoons. I then placed the plates on the glass-topped dining table, carefully carried out the curries and placed them atop each plate. I then grabbed three serviettes and wrapped each set of cutlery in a serviette and placed them on the left side of each plate.

    "Dinner's ready!" I called as I sat in a beautifully carved wooden char.

    Mr. and Mrs. Wickerson climbed down the staircase together. Once they sat down and made themselves comfortable, I started eating.

    "Mmh, this is lovely, Lola!" Mr. Wickerson commented. Mrs. Wickerson and I stared at him in amazement, though she was probably not impressed, but I was - oh, I was! It was extremely unusual of Mr. Wickerson to compliment the food. Even though it was not my cooking, I was flattered just as if it was for I tried to think he was complimenting on my hard work of sneaking out of the house and rushing to buy the meal, and also hyperventilating, then hurting my feet and exhausting myself, it was not easy.

    "Oh, well, why thank you Mr. Wickerson!" I beamed. Why did I beam? I shouldn't have! They'd probably want me to stay miserable and they'd put me under more torture if they found I was not sad every second of the bloody day. Although Mrs. Wickerson did not seem happy at me for doing such action, Mr. Wickerson smiled. He looked at me. It was almost as if he liked the fact I was happy. But he was a bastard, he didn't want me to be happy! I was entertaining them with my gloominess. My suffering delighted them. They were evil. Perhaps Mr. Wickerson was just trying to confuse me, but the way he removed his smile when Mrs. Wickerson looked back at him, it was almost as if he was afraid of her. But he was muscular. He was tough. If anything, he was the one to be afraid of, not her.

    "Well anyway," she spoke, "I will be leaving tomorrow. There is a business trip that is calling me."

    "Have fun, dear," replied Mr. Wickerson.

    After they left the luxurious table, I collected the dishes and utensils and placed them into the dishwasher--thank goodness they have a dishwasher! I then climbed upstairs for it was my bedtime--eight o'clock is so early!--and I laid on my bed. Usually, I would suffer insomnia due to the dramatic change of lifestyle, but tonight I slept like a baby for the first time in this place.



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