Page 7 of Beauty and the Billionaire

A harrowing suspicion had haunted me the entire day, and seeing the dates on Dominic Blackthorne’s contracts only made things worse. I had noticed that my father’s first loan was six years old, but that one had not been particularly high. He had taken on more debt four years ago and even more the year after. “What did you need the money for?” I asked.

Mother stiffened in the chair. “This and that. Your father’s new truck for the store, the warehouse expansion…”

“Yes, six years ago,” I said. “And then?”

“Zain,” Mother said, her voice darkening into a warning. “Will you let us handle this?”

“It was my college tuition, wasn’t it?” I asked. They had been so damn proud that I had enrolled. They had been so willing to fund it. “It’s not so expensive,” Father had claimed, thankful I had been happy with a public, in-state college. He had made it clear, however sadly, that private colleges were not something I could consider. “Wasn’t it?” I demanded, failing to hold back the note of anger.

My mother stood up proudly. “Mind your tone,” she said, but the threat wasn’t in it. “Your father and I did what we thought was best, and you will let us handle it. I don’t want you to get involved.”

“We could lose our home for a useless Communications degree,” I said, tears welling in my eyes before I could blink them away. “And for what? So I could work at the cash register?”

“Zain, I will not tolerate this,” Mother warned me, but she closed the distance between us as soon as she had spoken, putting her arms around me and pulling me into a tight embrace. “These were not your decisions,” she said in a low, hurried voice. “And they’re not your problems to fix.”

How could they not be mine? It had been my degree that had buried us so deep. And it had been the degree I had wanted so badly that my parents had no choice but to find a way to make it happen. I could still remember the burning desire to study, even if I hadn’t moved out of our home or done much of what college students did.

My mother held me until the hot and angry tears dried away. Once we pulled away from one another, she repeated in a low tone, “You will not involve yourself, Zain. Let your father handle it.”

I said nothing.

My father was home in the morning when I woke up. It was still dark outside, and the day promised to be rainy and cold. I quietly got out of my bunk bed, trying not to wake Karim, who occupied the upper bed, or the other two siblings sharing the bunk bed across the room. Sitting at the dining table, my father poured himself coffee, his strong brew that made the house smell like the winter of my childhood in my heart and mind, and he ran his fingers over his thick mustache. “Zain,” he said softly as I pulled the door shut.

Once my siblings were out of earshot, still fast asleep, I unwrapped the T-shirt I had grabbed from the back of my chair and pulled it over my head. “You’re back,” I said.

“I needed to see some people,” Father said in a voice that betrayed nothing.

He must have read the question from my face. I didn’t dare voice it, and I should have concealed it better. He was, after all, my father. That carried some weight in this house.

“No, Zain,” Father said in a tone edged with authority. “I did not look for lenders.”

I pressed my lips into a tight line. That they had gone so far as to ask Dominic Blackthorne for money to pay my tuition without telling me the truth hurt my soul. It made me feel like a kid, even though I had shouted at Dominic that I was not one. What right did I have to claim I was an adult in the company of adults who shielded me like this?

I left my father sitting in silence while I brushed my teeth and poured myself filter coffee, which was much milder and preferable, in my opinion. This was how we always started our day.

When I sat down and took a sip of coffee, Father looked into my eyes. “Your mother is worried, Zain.”

“I know. We’re going to lose the house,” I said bluntly, making my father wince and regret my words instantly.

“Mr. Blackthorne is not as unreasonable as that,” Father said quietly, lifting the small cup of coffee with three fingers and bringing it to his lips. The cup was white porcelain with a striking turquoise pattern around the middle and only three fingers deep. Father would drink his coffee hot in small sips and then pour more from the bronze pot.

“He is very unreasonable,” I protested. “He’s here to settle the debt, Father.”

“He’s here on his business, and it makes him agitated,” Father said calmingly. “Everyone knows Mr. Blackthorne hates being in the city. The rule is never to do business with him when he is away from Harringford, his home.”

“Is that where you did business with him?” I asked.

Father nodded once, deeply. “And it is where I should go to speak to him. Not here when he is angry.”

I gave a pained laugh and stifled it so I wouldn’t wake the others up. “Do you hear the sound of this?”

“Zain,” Father said, but it was an attempt to soothe me rather than to warn me that I might be overstepping.

“He acts like a petulant prince,” I hissed. “We can’t speak to him here because he’s angry? That’s ridiculous. And how will you meet him there? He’s in the city right now, and he wants his money, or he’ll set his lawyers on us.” I wanted to shout that we were screwed, but that language could earn me a warranted slap on the mouth or the next appropriate response.

“I will arrange it,” Father said firmly. “I will take part of the payment to him personally. To Harringford. And we will speak as human beings.”

“What? While I sit here, useless, watching you call in every favor you can for the sake of a degree, which I never get to use?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Do you have any idea how pathetic that makes me feel?” I asked.

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