Semua Bab Charlotte: The Fate of the White Dragon: Bab 1 - Bab 6

If there’s one thing I can say about my family, it’s that we’re tightly wound together like a pack of old socks, maybe not the fanciest, but warm and worn in. That’s me, my mum Melinda, and my dad Oliver. Well, more Melinda’s opinion than ours, but let’s not split hairs. We live in Lexxton—a quiet-ish town with twice as many tongues as brains. Rumours here grow faster than garden weeds after a thunderstorm. Oliver, bless him, ran this dinky coffee shop that somehow brewed magic in a cup. The place always smelled like sweet roasted heaven, and no one could beat the blend he made with them long fingers of his. Funny enough, he looked like a twiggy scarecrow with a constant slouch and a lopsided grin, always ready with a daft joke for anyone who’d listen. Melinda though…eh, she was a force of nature. She had twice her husband's body count—of course I wouldn't dare say that in front of her but, oh well— with squinted green eyes that squinted even more behind her thick specs. And whe

I'm sitting in the backseat of a half-worn taxi that smells suspiciously like old takeaway and stale air freshener. The driver’s just turned on the radio, and, bloody hell, it’s some miserable tune straight outta a funeral march. Violins screech like a banshee’s wail, and suddenly, Monday feels like it’s kicked me square in the gut. “Oi, could you just turn that bleedin’ racket off?” I bark, way louder than intended. The poor guy jumps and fumbles with the dial like I’ve just smacked him. “I did ask if you fancied some music…” he mumbles, clearly regretting his life choices. “Some folk are right pains in the neck.” I sink into the torn leather seat, arms folded like a sulky teen, mentally replaying that moment at the coffeehouse. It been two weeks now. Two entire weeks since that stranger had strolled in like he owned the air I was breathing and said those maddening words. 'Found you.' And those two words haven’t stopped echoing through my skull. My overactive imagination's gone

“Can you believe that prick?!” I spit, slouched like a discarded sock in Evelyn’s bougie bedroom. She’s perched elegantly in front of her mirror, dabbing her plush lips with a velvet-red lipstick like she's preparing for a Vogue cover, when she's not actually heading anywhere. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over in a creaky armchair, hacking away at my uneven nails like a woman on the edge. “I mean,” I groan, flicking the nail file like it’s to blame, “this guy just turns up from nowhere, struts into someone’s coffee shop, MY very own workplace, by the way—in his flash posh-mobile, acting like he owns the bloody shop. Such a rude, arrogant piece of shit!" Evelyn pouts in the mirror, then turns toward me, her smirk borderline aristocratic. “Lottie, darling,” she purrs in her perfectly enunciated drawl, “don’t slag off the rich. It screams broke. And… desperate.” She rolls her eyes, then waltzes over and flops on the bed beside me. Her movements all grace and silk, while I resemble a slug i