At the time, I’d been in high school and hadn’t wanted to leave my friends. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I’m not a speech therapist.” My voice was a little desperate, so I cleared my throat and tried not to sound like I was defending myself. “I help people with torn ligaments. Rotator cuff issues. People who—”
“It seems you and Cade aren’t doing therapy at all.”
“Excuse me?” My face flushed. My father may as well have called me a failure.
“I don’t want you seeing him any longer. Paul Wilson is a former gambler. Caden Wilson is a criminal.”
“Cade is not a criminal.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I didn’t like my father’s tone.
“Street racing is illegal.”
He had me there. But there was no way I was letting him mandate what I did or didn’t do, who I saw or didn’t see. I was out of “his house” and that made me immune to “his rules.”
“Cade doesn’t race any longer and Paul is your accountant. If you don’t trust him, then why would you let him crunch your company numbers?”
“Let me explain something to you, Natasha.” His mouth turned down. He was unhappy I’d challenged him.
Morton Montgomery leaned back in his chair and put a finger to his temple, elbow on the desk. It was a casual position, but I could never relax under his scrutiny. “Paul Wilson pulled us out of a tax issue two years ago.”
“I know.” I should have let him finish his monologue, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
“We owe him,” he said resolutely, his calm voice echoing off the high ceiling as if he’d shouted.
“You owe him?” I asked, purposely rephrasing his statement.
“We owe him. Everything we have—this house, your clothing, tuition, your car—is in part thanks to Paul. The IRS could have seized my records, fined me until I was forced to retire my business. Paul stopped that from happening.”
I still wasn’t sure how Super Paul had stopped the government from fining my father until he was penniless. I knew none of this was my fault or fell on my shoulders. But my father always framed it that way. Heaven forbid he bear that weight alone. Even when my parents divorced, he’d included me in the blame game he played nightly. Your mother left us and we’re both at fault. You took up much of her time, and I was forced to work to give my girls what they needed.
I guess deep down I knew this wasn’t true, that this was my father’s skewed view of life—the story he had to tell himself so he could sleep at night—but it didn’t stop the oppressive guilt from quashing me.
“Wouldn’t you agree we have a good life? Nice things? Privilege, Natasha, doesn’t come cheap.”
I didn’t answer. I knew what I had. I could see what others didn’t.
“You would agree that if I cut you off—stopped paying for your schooling months before you graduate, sold your car—that would be detrimental to your future, wouldn’t you?”
I gaped, stunned. This was the first time I’d heard this speech end with such a blatant threat.
“Wouldn’t you.” His voice was low and cold, his two words a command and not a question.
“It would be detrimental,” I admitted. This close to graduation, I needed his help with tuition. I couldn’t afford it now that I was living on my own. Briefly I thought of my mother, how I could run to her. When she and Dad divorced, I made my choice. I had been angry with my mother, and my father stoked those flames. At the time, I’d blamed her, which drove a wedge between us. We met for coffee and lunch every once in a while—we weren’t strangers—but I knew she was living without my father’s money as well. She couldn’t afford my education.
“I agree,” he said. “You know I couldn’t in good conscience continue to pay for the nice things you have if you were hanging out with a criminal every week, don’t you?”
My face grew red as my anger spiked. “We’re not hanging out. We’re working.”
“Work happens at the rehabilitation center, not in Caden Wilson’s bedroom.”
I shot out of my chair. “I’m not sleeping with Cade!”
Snatching up the box, I marched into the foyer, steam billowing from my ears. First off, I hated that I’d just blurted that, because it made me sound guilty. Secondly, I wished I’d remained silent and let my father think what he wanted. Thirdly—
“Natasha.” That was at full volume.
I stopped in the foyer and turned, nostrils flaring.