"I just don't think my financial aid application is strong enough."
Jordan looks up. "What financial aid?"
I furrow my brow at him. "Yale, of course. The need-based one." I gesture at my screen. "I should be attaching more evidence—volunteer positions, humanitarian efforts, and the like. I might not get it—"
"Sabrina." He pushes his Mac aside. "You don't need financial aid."
I scoff. "Yeah, I do. Last time I checked, tuition was fifty thousand a year. That's—"
"Leave the student bursaries for those who actually need it."
I blink at him. "I DO need it."
"No, baby. You don't." He says it so gently, so matter-of-factly, like he's explaining that water is wet. "I'll pay for it."
My mouth falls open. "Like hell you will!"
"Why not?"
"Because—" I gesture helplessly. "It's my education. My responsibility."
"And you're going to be my wife," he points out.
"So?"
"Sabrina." He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes serious. "You're telling me that even after we're married, you won't let me pay for your college?"
"Correct. I don't want your money—"
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Suit yourself then, Mrs. Farrington." His voice drops, and there's something in the way he says it—firm but warm—that makes my breath catch. "If you're too proud to spend my money, you can spend yours."
"Spend mine?" I stare at him, confused. "Which money—"
He shoots me a pointed glance. And then it hits me.
Mrs. Farrington.
When I'm Mrs. Farrington, I'll have... money. Lots of it.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
Jordan's watching me carefully. "There. She gets it now."
"Jordan, how much is... mine?"
"Enough that a dozen Yales won't... be an issue."
My heart pounds painfully. "Give me a number."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know what I'm walking into!" My voice is rising now, panic creeping in. "What, seven zeros? Eight?"
His silence is answer enough. Neither.
"Oh my God." I stand up, pacing. "Oh my God. I can't—this is—"
"This is why I don't tell you some things," he says quietly.
