His diabolical smirk does nothing to ease my predicament.
I set his expression to memory and turn my face away to relish the lighthearted moment.
After a few minutes of quiet, he kisses the back of my hand and requests my attention with a gentle tug.I turn with one brow raised in question.
“What happened with your dad?Samuel never mentioned an accident,” he says.
Dark clouds gather around me as I recall the worst months of my life.
“Samuel doesn’t know,” I respond.
“What?Why?”Sebastian asks.
I sigh and drop my head back on the seat, but the headrest—even though it’s adjusted to the lowest setting—hits the top of my head in a weird spot and hurts my neck, so I fix my posture and meet Sebastian’s eyes before he returns his attention to the road.
“He borrowed a few thousand dollars from our parents a couple weeks before the accident to fund whatever startup he was fixated on at the time.They didn’t want to distract him, so they agreed to wait until he paid back the loan to tell him.He never did, so they haven’t.”
Sebastian’s broad fingers fiddle with my ring as he digests the information.
“How bad was the accident?”he asks.
I procrastinate long enough for him to change lanes and make several turns before I speak, using the time to formulate a coherent sequence of events.
“A steel beam fell on the top of his head when he was responding to an emergency.Luckily he had his helmet on so his skull was protected, but the impact caused all kinds of spine, nerve, and internal damage.He’d already clocked out and wasn’t supposed to be on the floor, so the company played a bunch of legal games and refused to pay for his medical bills.”
The muscles in Sebastian’s jaw flex and anger flashes in his eyes, but he weaves through traffic and asks his next question with relative calm.
“Was your dad ever able to go back to work?”he asks.
I shake my head.
“Then how did your parents manage?”
I shrug.
“Don’t tell me they expected you to help.You were—what, thirteen or fourteen?—and in advanced classes in high school.You couldn’t get a job,” he argues.
I shrug again.
“Youdidget a job?”he snarls.
“Not a job, per se, but I did start making money,” I say.
“How?”
The lack of skepticism in his voice shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.So does the anger in his tone.I shift in my seat as instinctual fear races through my veins.After a deep breath and the familiar flare of pain from my scars, I answer as nonchalantly as I can.
“I started with patents and licenses then branched out into online freelancing.”
“While still maintaining perfect academics?”
His grip tightens on my hand.I wince.He releases me and runs his hand through his hair.
“You were also being bullied then, too, weren’t you?”
I wrap my arms around myself and close my fist around the gemstone on my ring.
“Fucking hell, Penelope.No wonder you hate me.I’m a monster for not noticing.That’s so much—too much—for anyone, much less a young girl.”
