Page 2 of Dirty Deal

“Princess!”

My shoulders stiffen at that nickname, but I let my parents drag me inside, suitcase knocking against my calf. The door slams shut behind me, blocking out the moaning wind.

They fuss over me, peeling off my coat and saying I must be soaked to the bone, asking if I’ve been eating enough. As though I’ve been away at war, rather than working in events management for a ski resort.

“I’m fine,” I snap eventually, shrugging them both off, and they both blanch but step back. I’ve only been away for one year, but in that time, my parents have both aged a decade.

They’re both shorter, stooped, their shoulders rounded where they used to stand proud. My mother’s hair has grown out of its usually perfect coif, and my father’s salt and pepper hair has turned entirely gray.

There are bags under both of their eyes. And this townhouse is cold, the heating switched off even though it’s freezing outside.

I’d feel sorry for them, if this weren’t all their damn fault.

“Have you received any more threats?” I ask, my tone all business as I lead the way to the kitchen. My skull is squeezing my brain in a vise-grip, and I need coffee. Gallons of coffee.

Cupboards slam and mugs clatter as I dig out supplies. My parents are silent, huddled together against the marble kitchen island, until I shoot my father a pointed look over my shoulder.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Two days ago. We’re running out of time. They won’t wait much longer.”

He looks so much smaller than I remember. Weaker, too.

Once upon a time, my father was a giant in my eyes. The hero of every story.

These days, I see him for what he really is: a weak man who cares more aboutappearingwealthy than he does about true security. A man who would take out loans upon loans, first from the banks, then from shadier companies, before finally borrowing from the kinds of gangs who take kneecaps rather than payment plans.

All to keep play-acting as a billionaire. Gambling thousands of dollars every night in the very same casino he sold to Weston James; buying my mother designer dresses and diamond drop earrings. You know: pointless crap.

How much of my childhood was already a lie? How much of it was never truly ours, only borrowed at the cost of our future selves?

“And Weston?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully level. My mother huffs loudly at the mere mention of his name, slapping one hand down on the island. Her expensive rings clatter against the marble, and I file that observation away for later.

My parents are notentirelywithout resources yet. There’s still the townhouse, too, though scooping them out of this home might feel like peeling a snail from its shell.

“That man,” my mother hisses, almost to herself. My father rubs her shoulder, but directs his words to me.

“He won’t help. Won’t even let me through the casino doors anymore. After Ibuiltthat place, after I made it what it is—”

“My great-grandfather built the Merritt,” I point out, cutting off his rant. I’ve heard it a hundred times before, and it never gets more interesting. “You inherited it. Then ran it into the ground, and sold it to Weston James at an incredibly low price.”

My mother splutters. My father sucks in a deep breath.

“Inegotiateda profitable deal—”

“You sold this family’s main source of income. Along with all your other assets, and in the space of a single year. All for a series of cheap thrills in your own lost casino. Impressive, really.”

My words are harsh, I know they are, but they’re thetruth.Better to face harsh truths than tell each other sweet lies. Because despite how fall they’ve fallen, despite the true idiocy of their decisions, I love my parents and they love me. The Merritts will weather this together—somehow.

I turn and pass them both coffees. They take them gratefully, blowing at the hot liquid, and I make a mental note to check that they actually know how to use the damn machine. Seriously, how can anyone be so helpless in this day and age? The internet isright there.

My headache throbs, and I sip my own coffee before continuing.

“Here’s the plan.”

My parents straighten against the island, hope in their eyes for the first time. When I was younger, these two people seemed like the font of all knowledge. I believed everything they told me, sucked up their ‘wisdom’ like a greedy little plant.

Those days are long gone.

“You’re going to sell the townhouse.” My mother lets out a sob, wilting against the island, but I ignore her theatrics. We need to get through this. “Your jewelry, too. The watches, the designer clothes, the original artworks. All of it. Anything you have left that’s worth selling.”

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