the clinking of ice.
My mother’s soft laugh made me smile. They had evening drinks in here from time to time. Mom used to take a drink in to Dad to distract him from work until he gave up, and eventually it had turned into a nonregular ritual.
I knocked on the door as I pushed it open. “Daddy?”
“Oh, shit.” Mom laughed, leaning her elbow on the arm of the leather couch in the corner.
Dad squeezed her knee and swirled his scotch with his other hand. “You must want something big if you’re calling me Daddy.”
I placed my hand on my chest and plastered an outraged look on my face. “Can’t a girl show affection to her father without being accused of manipulation?”
“When it comes to most teenage girls, no.” Mom took a sip of her own scotch.
“When it comes to you, sweetness, definitely not. You don’t do anything unless it’s with intention. You get that from me.” There was pride in my father’s eyes as he leaned back against the couch.
My parents knew me so well, and yet . . . no one knew that part of me that came alive by throwing myself at dangerous men in seedy bars. Other than Hendrix. And he’d still called me perfect.
I pushed him out of my mind and sat on the soft rug, helping myself to the cheese board. “So rude,” I said around a mouthful of brie and cracker. Other than with the girls, this was pretty much the only place I’d allow myself to speak with food in my mouth.
My parents each raised a brow, waiting.
I rolled my eyes. “OK, fine.” They burst into laughter, and I had to raise my voice. “But it’s not for me.”
“What’s going on?” Dad set his glass on the table and leaned his elbows on his knees.
“DCLC is having its funding cut. Jasmin says she’s going to have to let someone go, and they’re stretched so thin already. It’s just not fair.”
Dad nodded and gestured for me to continue. I sat up straighter and met his gaze head-on. I’d never asked my parents for this much money before.
“I’d like you to make a donation. An anonymous one.”
“How much?”
I laid out several levels of monetary assistance and what that would do for the center.
“That’s a lot of money.” Dad popped an olive into his mouth.
“They help a lot of people.”
“Our charity fund has already allocated the donations for this year.”
“Yeah, but we have the money, and you’re in charge of the fund. You can expand the capacity if you want. Or we can make it a personal donation.”
He eyed me for a few minutes, chewing on the olive. “Tell you what, prepare a proposal for me, outlining in detail the funds needed and where they’ll go, and I’ll consider it.”
I grinned and jumped to my feet. “Thank you, Daddy!”
His answer was as good as a yes. He was just using the opportunity to get me to work on my report-writing skills, and I knew I’d crush that report.
I finished drafting it well after midnight and fell asleep instantly afterward, exhausted after a long day—but a certain infuriating guy invaded my dreams anyway.
With the donation all but locked in, I thought my frustrating week was finally turning around, but the next day made me want to throw a tantrum in the middle of Fulton Academy—let everyone see how done I was with their shit.
I was sitting between Amaya and Mena at lunch, slowly eating a roast veg salad while checking emails on my phone, when I saw it.
“Motherfucker.” I smacked my fork down and gripped my phone so tightly I was surprised the screen didn’t crack.
“D? You OK?” Amaya leaned in, her dark hair falling over her face and screening her concerned expression. The cafeteria was as raucous as usual—no one had noticed my quiet outburst of rage.
Grinding my teeth, I showed her my phone. She skimmed the email that had just come in, the one informing me I would not be awarded the internship I’d been working toward for the past year.
“What the fuck?” Amaya’s frown deepened. “I was positive you had that in the bag.”
“Me too.” I got to my feet and stuffed my phone into my pocket. “Keep this in the Dynasty for now, OK?”
“You got it. Where are you going?” She waved Mena’s curious glances down.
“To get to the bottom of it.”
I marched out of the cafeteria, through the school, and up to the third floor, where all the faculty and admin staff