Missy—when they were kids, Julian called her that all the time.Sydney had not spent long in the orphanage or at the Sterling estate, barely a year or two of torment, so her spoiled, pampered temper had not yet been worn away.If Julian showed her even a little kindness, her old habits would resurface quickly. She had been 7 then—sincere yet spoiled, kind yet willful, her heart and her temper equally unrestrained.One summer night, during a thunderstorm, she had crept into his room barefoot, clutching her doll. Julian, already 13 and deep into puberty, had begun to understand that boys and girls were different. He had frowned and told her to go back to her own room.But little Sydney, spoiled rotten by his care, had darted under his blanket, pulled the thin quilt over her head, and pouted, her voice righteous and firm. "But, Jules, your Precious is scared of thunder! If the thunder strikes, I will die!"Back then, Julian had not told her that only scumbags got struck by lightning.
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