Gilded Lies

<p>The limousine door clicked open and I froze at the curb of</p><p>Rochelle's Upper East Side townhouse. My oversized tote bag</p><p>felt almost comically small compared to the vastness of her</p><p>world but she'd insisted-warmly sweetly-that I come stay</p><p>with her and her son. Johnnika it'll be fun! she'd said over</p><p>FaceTime. I wanted to believe her. I wanted comfort. I wanted</p><p>family.</p><p>The brownstone gleamed in the late afternoon sun: cream-</p><p>colored stone polished brass handles and a single red rose</p><p>bush perfectly pruned in the front yard. Everything screamed</p><p>perfection. Even the faint hum of a Rolls-Royce Phantom idling</p><p>nearby fit seamlessly into the scene. Inside the scent of freshly</p><p>baked croissants from Bouchon Bakery mingled with the subtle</p><p>perfume of Chanel No.5 lingering in the grand foyer.</p><p><br> </p>