Its a small world afterall

Dahlia POV

I think I am going to be sick.

I stood frozen, feeling dizzy, my eyes fixed on the three people in front of me. My father, Stella Sterling, and David. My mind reeled as I struggled to process the bombshell they'd just dropped.

It doesn't help that the three of them lined up in front of me, waiting for me to respond. Like they didn't just drop a whole ball of emotions. I am literally going from being an only child to having a brother. Step-brother, I correct myself. And it especially doesn't help that the person to is my brother is David Sterling.

Maybe I'll faint, I think, matter-of-fact. The casualness with which I consider it almost makes me laugh. Except that the situation is essentially a tragedy, not a comedy.

I've only fainted once before. It was during one of my mother's appointments. And no it wasn't one of those beauty appointments like the hair salon or the spa, but it was her dialysis.

I'd insisted on going, despite her protests that I needed to be in school, that I was in seventh grade and I'd soon have to compete for a spot at one of the prestigious private high schools in the DC area. It was obviously an excuse, her way of trying to protect me from the inevitable. But even then, despite my parents' attempts to hide the severity of my mother's disease from me, and maybe from themselves, some part of me knew she was dying.

"Do not pass out," I tell myself now. Not over this. It'll be too obvious. Be happy for your father. I keep saying in my head trying to mumble some words out.

"I know it is a lot to take in," my father says.

"Yeah, a lot," I repeated his statement, my voice sounding robotic.

If my father noticed my mood change, he didn't comment on it as he cleared his throat. "David was just saying that he knows you well from school."

I looked up from my father to meet David's eyes, hoping my murderous glare is enough to silence whatever the hell the unpredictable jackass is considering saying. David's eyes crinkle at the edges, and the smirk makes my blood boil and I believe he considers this entire situation a joke.

He's a troublemaker. He's always been a troublemaker. I've known him since the second grade, before he left and he hasn't changed at all since then. He used to flip up girl's skirts when we were in elementary school, and to be honest he's done the same thing ever since. For a different reason now, but it's still all the same to me.

Oh sh*t. What if he knew about our parents before… before what happened between us that night? The thought triggers a fresh wave of nausea.

"Yeah, Fandesvic's not exactly a big place," David says, looking at me before turning to my father. "Everyone knows almost everything about everyone. It's practically like they knew each other intimately ."

Immediately the word left his mouth, I could see Stella Sterling's face in utter shock, but my father cleared his throat like he wanted to cough out the fact that David had said something vulgar. If I weren't so completely and entirely enraged with David, I'd almost be amused by my father's obvious discomfort.

"David," Ella says, her tone sharp. "Perhaps we should give Dahlia and her father a moment."

Uh, no. The last thing I want right now is a moment alone with my father. I definitely don't want to hear his explanation for why – or how on earth – he was able to keep a relationship with Stell Sterling completely under wraps from everyone, including his daughter, for the past God-knows-how long. I definitely don't want a reminder about the significance of his upcoming Governorship re-election campaign. Or about the importance of decorum and public perception.

Oh my God, public perception. If anyone finds out what happened between David and me. Before this shocking news from my father, it was just an ill-advised one-night stand. A temporary lapse in judgment. My complete loss of sanity.

My chest feels tight, and I'm having trouble breathing. "I need a minute," I say as I start to walk away, my body moving of its own accord. "Please."

I don't hear what they're saying. I walk straight out of the room where they were still talking, past the tasteful colonial-style furniture placed for a show, not use, that matches the decor of the rest of this perfectly polished house. My father had interior decorators do some work every year to keep the place looking brand new. I always saw a new decor each holiday.

This is not the place where I grew up, the house in Newport, Rhode Island where I spent my entire childhood. This is the house where my father moved permanently after my mother died, the DC residence; I was shipped off to Fandesvic Academy which is a Boarding School, as an inconvenience that simply needed to be reassigned.

With a strange need to take a leak, I open the first door I come to at the end of the hallway. It's my father's office, not the bathroom like I'm expecting, but I realize I can't remember where the bathroom is on the first floor. How stupid to not be able to remember where the bathroom is in your own house, I think. But, then, this isn't really my house.

I stepped into the office, the door creaking shut behind me. I leaned against it, the solid wood a comforting barrier between me and the chaos outside. The room was silent, except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. As I looked around, my gaze fell on the walls, lined with photo after photo of my father with politicians and important people, smiling for the camera and glad-handing, making deals and promises.

And on the side of his L-shaped desk, prominently displayed like some kind of trophy, is a silver-framed photo of them. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me as I stared at the picture of my father and Stella. Their cheeks were pressed together like two teenagers, grinning stupidly at the camera they were holding out in front of their faces.

"How could you?" I whispered, my eyes welling up with tears. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. I have the impulse to go over to the desk, to pick up the picture and smash it, to throw it to the ground and watch the glass shatter into a million pieces. But I don't. Dahlia Peterson would never do something like that.

Of course, Dahlia Peterson wouldn't have also slept with someone like David Sterling, either, with his tattoos and piercings and I don't give a f*ck attitude. He blew into Fandesvic Academy like a damned tornado. His reputation preceded him, but David was a force all on his own. Like some kind of unnatural phenomenon.

It was natural for me to hate him since I knew him in second grade but it was a long time ago. But when I stumbled upon him again in Fandesvic Academy with his meticulously torn jeans and t-shirt with the design faded into oblivion in spots smudged so it appeared vintage but was some piece of designer schlock paid for by his mother who made all the money in the world in, all his taunts of second grade came rushing back and I was back to despising him.

Thinking he had changed from his old ways, he immediately offered my best friend Rachel a private tour of his new dorm room as payment for being his school tour guide. Although Rachel was very open with her sexuality, she declined which caused him to laugh, then winked and made sure to extend the offer to me. If I could have rolled my eyes any harder, I would have sprained them.

Over the next two years, David pretty much proved every prior tabloid article written about him right, racking up the media even while at school. He did all kinds of things that would piss the authorities – underage smoking, drinking, drugs, girls in his room – all of which were summarily swept under the rug, of course. Donations were made. It helped that David's insolence was intermittent; he was one of those guys who could charm the pants off anyone he wanted.

I mean that literally. David made it through most of the females in the senior class – not Rachel, but I'm pretty sure if she weren't utterly devoted to her boyfriend, she would have jumped at the opportunity at some point. The thing is, even when he showed up two years ago, David had more of a reputation in the bedroom than he had outside of it. What he does with his tongue is the stuff of legend. The thought of him between my legs makes me flush.

The door creaked open behind me, jolting me out of my thoughts and I spun around, expecting to see my father but saw him instead.