Page 58 of Betting on the Brainiac

“She’s not even in control of herself. You are.”

“Madison,” he says, making his voice calm. Reasonable. He’s projecting “adult in the room” vibes. It makes me want to yell the kind of words he says on the golf course.

“Dad.” I force it out through gritted teeth.

“Madison Leigh. You’ve made your point. Enough is enough. Come home. You can run the Armstrong Foundation.”

“Does it do anything besides sponsor the symphony fundraiser? Like right a single wrong this family has done?”

“That’s enough,” he says. “We paid our fines.”

“Because you lost every appeal!” The last bits of my temper snap, and I don’t care. “I am so sick of your—”

A loud crash from the stockroom cuts off my words.

That has to be Oliver.

Have I had a witness to this whole humiliating scene?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Oliver

I should not behearing this fight between Madison and her dad, but when I drove up to find a Bentley parked beside Madison’s car, I had a feeling I knew who it belonged to.

They didn’t hear me over their raised voices when I came in, and when I paused to assess the situation, the anger was so palpable that I couldn’t leave until I was sure it wouldn’t boil over.

I’ve heard way more than I should have, paralyzed about what to do. Do I go out and come back in? Stay put until they’re done?

“Because you lost every appeal!”

Ohhh, that’s not good. Madison is teetering on the edge.

“I am so sick of your—”

I jostle a stack of whiskey crates to distract them, and everything goes dead silent. I pause, take a deep breath, and step into view. “Whoops, Mads, I might have—”

Her father makes a stiff half turn and fixes me with a barely concealed glare. He exudes money and power. I bet his shoes cost more than two of my car payments, and his salt-and-pepper mane definitely only goes to an expensive salon.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “Are you Heinrich? I’m Oliver. Thanks for letting me work in here.”

“I’m not Heinrich,” he says, already turning back to his daughter like I’m not worth finishing the sentence. “Call me when you’re ready to talk about this, Madison Leigh.”

“Bye, Daddy,” she says, and her tone is so sweet it’s poison. I only notice Mr. Armstrong flinch because he brushes past me on the way out, but he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me.

When the door closes behind him, I lean against the wall across from the office, waiting to see what Madison needs.

She stares at me, but she doesn’t see me. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to be Team Madison.” Enough to wish it were my right to step into the office and hold her, to tell her that everything will be okay.

She focuses on me. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but it’s a slow, careful gesture, like it hurts.

“Will you be okay if I go grab something outside really quick?”

---