Nothing. I don’t even see or hear the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones.
I take another step. “Hello?”
Turning in place, I cut through the living room on my right and round a corner, passing through the adjoining hallway until the coastal-inspired gourmet kitchen—my mother’s pride andjoy of the house, even though she can’t cook to save her life—slides into my eyeline.
“Oh,thereyou guys are,” I say when I spot my parents. I skirt around the marble-topped island and approach the brightly-lit breakfast nook overlooking the harbor outside where they sit in silence at the round mahogany table. “Didn’t you hear me calling? I?—”
My gut twists when I notice the condemning look they shoot my way. The silence they have yet to break.
“Wait.” My pulse kicks up a notch as that feeling of foreboding tightens in my chest, and I stop in my tracks, glancing between their solemn faces. “Why do you both look like you’re about to stage an intervention?”
My father, whose hands are folded on the table, unclasps his fingers to pull out the empty chair beside him. “Sit down.”
Sit down.Period. No Damian. No hijo. Just those two conclusive, damning words.
Swallowing hard, I step forward and slide into the seat, anticipating what I’m now certain is coming—the moment one of them will speak, and the happiness I’ve let shroud me these last few weeks will be torn away without mercy.
My world is about to come crashing down around me, I know it. And yet…neither one of them seems eager to say as much. I wish they would. I wish they would just fucking say it and get this over with.
My palms are sweaty as I clasp my hands under the table. “Mom?” I prod, glancing at my mother, but she averts her gaze. However, the disappointment that ekes out and spreads across her face is impossible to miss.
It’s my father who finally breaks the silence.
“Earlier, Mr. Harrison called us after noticing some concerning transactions in your account while reviewing the family’s finances.” His dark eyes pin me in place, his mouthturned down into a harsh frown that borders on a grimace. “Perhaps you care to explain?”
I blink at him. The tone of his text had me convinced this was about something else, some final straw I wasn’t even aware I had pulled, and that this would be the day they yanked the rug, and their connection and remaining love—assuming they still feel any toward me at all—out from under my feet. I had been certain they were going to announce their intent to cut me off, and maybe they are, maybe thatiswhat this is about. But if so, I can safely say I have no fucking clue what I’ve done to deserve it. Transactions? What transactions? I don’t know of any big expenditures I’ve made except?—
My skin pales, and all the blood rushing through me turns cold. Suddenly, the urgency—why they called me to the house instead of their usual mindfuckery at Fernando’s—makes sense.
Fuck. Fuckingfuck. They know about the cash I’ve been sending to Blondie. They must; that’s the only possible thing my dad could be referring to when he says “transactions.” It’s not like I’ve spent any differently than I normally do—aside from that day at The Couture Room and when I took Blondie and her friends out on theLucia. And, of course, there was the necklace I got her for Christmas. But other than that? For someone with a fuck ton of money to burn, I’m surprisingly non-spendy. Generally. For the most part.
But my monthly payments to Blondie? Those would definitely stand out in a haystack of otherwise unconcerning expenditures, and what’s worse, it never occurred to me, in all my staggering idiocy, that my parents would eventually notice them.
And it was pretty much a guarantee they would. Mr. Harrison is our family accountant—he manages all the Navarro finances, including those for Hallazgo—and as it’s the start of the new year, we’ve officially entered tax season…which means,of course, he’d be looking at all our accounts to be certain everything is in order and take note of every last fucking penny. A completely minor detail that didn’t cross my dumbass mind when I started sending those monthly sums to Blondie.
God, I can only imagine how this looks; they probably think I knocked her up. I would ask myself what I was thinking, but the truth is, I wasn’t thinking at all. And I sure as shit wasn’t considering the potential IRS implications. I don’t even know how much you can legally gift to someone, or if our agreement would be classed as some form of employment. I’ve never had cause to worry about such things, and I’ve certainly never paid much attention to our finances or to what happens behind the scenes to keep the Navarro name in good standing. And it’s not like my parents have ever asked me about my spending before; they never had reason to.
Until now. Until I started doing something completely out of the norm—or rather, out ofmynorm. Shit, no wonder it caught Mr. Harrison’s eye; that guy is a fucking hawk on a bad day.
I can’t believe I was ignorant enough to think the money would go unnoticed. That five figures a month would easily fly under the radar in this family just because we’re worth billions. But then, I guess it’s true what they say: the rich don’t get rich by giving their money away.
On some level, part of me is convinced this whole agreement with Blondie was always destined to fail. That I would always fall victim to my parent’s ultimatum.
I just never anticipated it would be my own stupidity that would cause my downfall.
“I…” I try to speak, but my mouth and tongue are as dry as sandpaper, and I don’t even knowwhatto say. Nothing comes to mind that won’t implicate me further.
“Is that Dornan girl blackmailing you?” my mother asks.
My eyes flit to hers, narrowing on her face, which is taut, like a wire on the verge of snapping. She holds my gaze as I resist the urge to bark out a humorless laugh.
Only a few weeks ago, she was smiling at Blondie and telling her how “wonderful” it was to see her. And now?
Funny how quickly Blondie went from Lexi to “that Dornan girl.”
“No,” I retort, my tone dancing on the edge somewhere between scathing and pleading. “You have it all wrong. This is entirely on me, not Lexi. She hasn’t doneanything.”
My father scoffs. “Except extort tens of thousands of dollars from us,” he grumbles.
