Page 22 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret

“I told you, I’ll figure it out,” he said again, but it sounded thinner this time.

“Okay. But even if you do figure that out—what about the alarm system? Shouldn’t it have gone off during the break-in?”

He hesitated. Long enough that I noticed.

“It was off,” he said finally, voice flat. “Has been.”

“What do you mean it was off?”

“I didn’t pay the bill,” he muttered, not quite meeting my eyes. “Canceled the autopay a few months ago. Didn’t have the money for it, and it seemed…optional.”

“Optional?” I blinked. “Dad, that’s literally why it’s there.”

“I didn’t think someone was going to actually break in, Amelia.”

My throat tightened. He sounded defensive now, like a kid who knew he screwed up and was trying to justify it.

“But even if I had kept it on,” he added quickly, as if reading my mind, “the electric’s going to get shut off anyway. I got the final notice this morning. If I don’t pay by Monday, I won’t have lights. No power, no fridge, no heat. So the alarm wouldn’t work regardless.”

I stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Because it’s not your responsibility.” His jaw clenched, and he looked out toward the street. “You’ve got your own life. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“But you’re already in my apartment,” I said, not unkindly. “And now you want to go back to a house with no door, no electricity, and no security system?”

He didn’t answer that.

He just picked up his tea, took a slow sip, and set it down again—hands steady, expression blank.

I leaned forward. “What about your profit share? You said when you officially retired, that was going to keep you afloat.”

He paused—just long enough. “I spent it,” he said finally. His tone was flat. “Took a gamble, literally. Casino. Thought I could stretch it into something more, but I didn’t know when to quit.”

I stared at him. “You what?”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I know. It was stupid. I thought maybe I’d hit big and not have to lean on anyone. I lost more than I could afford to.” A lie. Or half of one, at best. Somethingabout the way he said it—quick, rehearsed, vague. And he never talked about gambling before. Not even recreationally.

I sat back in my chair, trying to breathe through the slow flood of shock. “How much do you need?”

He let out a sigh and rubbed his jaw. “To catch up on utilities? About six hundred. But to get ahead again—to get the door fixed, and pay off what I’ve put on cards…I don’t know. Ten? Twelve?”

“Twelve thousand?” I choked on my sip of tea. A few heads at nearby tables turned.

“I’ve been working,” he added quickly, like that would soften the number. “A few part-time gigs. Just enough to stay ahead of the worst of it. Deliveries. Some warehouse work overnight a few times a week.”

My heart ached. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped sooner.”

“Because I’m not your kid,” he said, too sharply. “I don’t need you putting food on my table. I just need a little help until things level out.”

I stared at the tabletop. Twelve thousand dollars. I didn’t have that kind of money sitting around. I definitely couldn’t ask Xander for it. That wasn’t the kind of favor you slipped in between pillow talk and quarterly projections.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Maybe it’s time to think about selling the house.” He stiffened. “I’m serious. You could sell it, get something smaller. Or—” I hesitated. “You could stay with me for a while. For real. Move in until you’re back on your feet.”

He looked at me like I’d just slapped him across the face. “What, so you can put food on my table?”

“No. So I know you’re safe. So I don’t come home one day and find out someone broke in again, or that you’ve been sitting in the dark for a week without telling me.”

His eyes narrowed, voice rising. “Are you trying to put me in a home now?”

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