“A tuxedo fitting. No biggie.” He huffs out a breath, playing with the side mirror buttons. “Dad’s throwing a party tomorrow night.”
With him distracted, I concentrate on my new glasses, excitement growing with each new discovery. A tiny speaker behind my ear reads out street signs in a crystal-clear voice, and I soon master the zoom feature, magnifying random objects, even staring at Damien’s profile until it’s enlarged enough to see every pore.
When we pull up outside, he unlocks my door. “Hope you enjoy them.” Not even going in for a kiss.
“I will. Thank you.”
The moment I step out, the car’s gone.
Even with the optometrist detour, I’ve beaten Bryan home again. In my room, I peel a note from the wad of cash and store the rest in my secret hiding place before heading downstairs.
I’m smiling as I open Bryan’s drawer, then my stomach knots.
His emergency cash pile has grown again. There must be thousands in here now. Ten times what he had before, and that was already far more than usual.
I crumple the hundred in my fist, the plastic note crinkling. After Damien’s unexpected gift, my first thought was to replace the money I’d stolen plus another forty for interest, put my morals back on an even keel. Now all I feel is dread.
There’s something wrong about the money in his drawer and the fact I don’t knowwhatmakes the crawling sensation across my upper back intensify.
Is he gambling? Doing something illegal?
If Bryan gets arrested because he’s trying to keep our heads above water, providing for me when my mother won’t, the guilt will eat me alive.
I drop my repayment on top and shut the drawer, mind churning with unanswered questions.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAMIEN
The party sprawlsthrough the ground floor of the mansion, spilling onto the rear terrace where heat lamps ward off the evening chill. String lights wrap around columns and railings, creating the illusion of intimacy in a space designed for intimidation.
A string quartet plays in the lobby corner, background music for conversations about stock portfolios and political connections.
I’ve been to a hundred of these parties. Maybe more. They blur together after a while, distinguished only by which corporate acquisition or political alliance my father is pursuing.
He finds me in-between conversations, materialising at my elbow with two glasses of scotch. He hands me one even though I haven’t asked for it. Even though if I’m driving Chelsea home later, I can’t afford any alcohol in my system. Not on a restricted licence.
But maybe that’s why he’s giving it to me in the first place.
“You’re doing well,” he says quietly, his eyes scanning the room rather than looking at me. “Chelsea’s charming everyone.”
I take a sip of the scotch. It burns going down, smooth and expensive. “That’s the goal, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer directly, clapping me on the shoulder, instead, the gesture meant to appear paternal to anyone watching. His fingers dig in slightly, just enough pressure to remind me of their strength.
Chelsea returns to my side moments later, flushed with pleasure from her latest conversation. Her eyes shine with the kind of happiness that comes from being admired.
“This party is amazing.” She slips her hand into mine. Her palm is warm, slightly damp, and I fight the urge to pull mine away. “Everyone who matters is here.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” My father gives a slight bow, and she blushes. “You two make such a lovely couple. Has Damien told you of our summer plans? We’d love to host you on our yacht in the Mediterranean if you’re free.”
Chelsea gasps beside me, a sound of genuine delight. “That would be fabulous.” She turns to me with wide eyes. “Did you know about this?”
I shake my head. My father doesn’t consult me about these things. He informs me, and I comply.
She’s already talking about what she’ll pack, what excursions we’ll take, how incredible it will be. Then she pouts. “Oh, but my father won’t let me go overseas unaccompanied.”
Playing straight into Dad’s hands.
