I could have moved in with Imani, sure, but that would mean paying rent.
Independence was expensive, and I had done the math. My remaining inheritance would cover exactly one year of tuition. If I spent it on rent, I couldn’t pay for school. If I paid for school, I’d be destitute by Christmas.
I needed him to fund my doctorate. And Julian Carter didn’t write checks for people who defied him.
Cleo studied me. “You’ve had at least one argument a day since you got back, haven’t you?”
I shrugged, swirling the liquid in my glass. “What can I say? We’re consistent. Though he’s been quiet lately. No screaming matches in at least forty-eight hours.”
“That’s because she played the part,” Imani said, dropping a lime wedge into her drink. “I saw the photos from the Foundation Gala. You were gazing up at him with enough sickly sweet, ‘Daddy knows best’ devotion to make me throw up.”
I grimaced. “I looked medicated.”
Cleo pursed her lips, eying me. “You did look like a happy family.”
“That’s the whole point.” I shrugged. “He gets his photo op. I get my money.”
Imani nodded, signaling for another round. “As long as you play nice in his sandbox, Julian gives you what you need.”
Need, neverwant. “Christ,” Cleo sighed. “You need an intervention.”
I just had to bide my time. Three more years, and I’d beout.
Once my DPsych was done, I’d have the qualifications to start practicing, and everything would fall into place. A career, a salary that didn’t come with strings attached, and enough distance that Julian Carter would become what he was always supposed to be: an occasional, obligatory presence at Christmas and maybe the odd polite nod at charity events.
That was the endgame.
I wasn’t naïve. Living in his penthouse was a necessary evil, nothing more. I could take out loans once my inheritance money ran out and stretch myself thin, but what was the point? His money existed whether I used it or not, and if a few years oftolerating him meant securing my futurefaster, I wasn’t above playing the long game.
“Think of it as him funding his own obsolescence,” I said. “Why struggle with loans when I can let him pay for my escape?”
Cleo groaned. “I hate that you make this sound logical.”
Imani smirked. “She has a gift.”
“No, she has a problem. A deep, fundamental aversion to fun.”
“I have fun.”
Their brows rose in unison.
“Alright. Say I believe you,” Cleo said.
Imani swirled her drink. “Which is generous.”
Cleo nodded. “Very. But let’s say I do. Describe, in vivid, edge-of-your-seat detail, the last time you did something purely for yourself. No strategy. No career advancement. No benefit beyond enjoying the moment.”
I opened my mouth, then frowned.
“Go on, then.” Cleo raised a brow. “Thrill us.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed against the table. Julian’s name flashed across it. I hadn’t even realized he was back from Zandvoort yet.
Imani whistled low. “Daddy Dearest calling personally? Must be serious.”
I ignored her, swiping to answer. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” he asked with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
