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“I didn’t get the promotion. Jackson Smithers did.” Bea revealed the name of the colleague who’d brought the situation at home to a head.

“Al’ama. He’s a jerk. You’re worth six of him. What idiot promoted him?” His defence was so unexpected; she almost dropped her cup a second time.

“Jackson’s quick to announce other people’s ideas and pretend innocence when challenged.” Bea had thought Jackson’s co-opting of other people’s ideas was the result of enthusiasm, until she’d started to see a deliberate pattern.

“But you have no smoking gun.”

“In an office where sharing ideas is part of the creative muscle, plagiarism is hard to prove. Plus, he takes advantage of being tall, white, and male to undermine harder-working men, women, and this daughter of Chilean refugees.” She stumbled to a halt—she hadn’t shared her suspicions with anyone.

“No positive discrimination in your workplace?”

“Only at entry level.” She couldn’t hide her indignation. “For promotion, we believe in a meritocracy. Funny what that delivers.”

“Jackson stole your ideas.” Casildo believed her, and relief rolled through her.

“Yes.”

“Get another job.”

“In the current climate, I’d have to take a pay cut to start over with someone else. Jackson has a mile-wide streak of meanness he hides from management. And I don’t trust him not to gaslight me.”

In her head, she’d already committed the extra income from her promotion to cover the upcoming increase in her parents’ variable mortgage rate. Tomorrow, she’d be back to looking at ads for waitresses or bar staff.

“Jackson’s won. What’s his gripe with you?” He studied her, his assessment far too male, and she resisted the instinct to check that a button in a strategic location hadn’t come undone. “Did you refuse to go to bed with him?”

“He didn’t get that far,” she snapped at the injustice of Jackson’s vindictiveness. “For Pete’s sake, I refused a drink with him.”

“Let’s rewind. What did missing out on a promotion have to do with you deciding to flee your family home?” His voice had dropped, deepened, and was mesmerising in its gentle encouragement. “Tell Uncle Cas all about it.”

“You’re not my uncle.”

“But I am an uncle and a brother. I know how to keep secrets. There are three Hariri children, four when you include Hunt. We include Hunt. We adopted him. Unofficially. He arrived last. Two girls then me. Second sister married with two ankle-biters. I can get references.”

“I saw you with them at Hunter and Anna’s wedding. They were the flower children.” They’d looked adorable. He’d been adorable with them.

“I’ve never seen them so excited.” He settled back in the armchair, prepared to outwait her.

“My sisters were angry.” Furious enough to blame Bea for not doing enough to win the promotion when she’d devoted hours to crafting a presentation Jackson had somehow seen in advance and stolen.

Fran, her youngest sister’s exact words were, “It’s your job to support Mamá and Papá.”

Neither of them had shown the slightest bit of sympathy, much less empathy while Bea’s plans crumbled around her, and something inside Bea had snapped. Why justherjob?

“I’m angry, and I’m not your nearest and dearest.”

Bea never badmouthed her family, had thought nothing and no one could ever encourage her to voice the frustration that had grown from a niggle to a howl, but she’d never faced a dreamy-looking Casildo Hariri smiling sympathetically at her.

“They’re angry because they had plans for the extra money.”

He simply stared at her. “How old are they?” he finally asked.

“Eighteen and nearly twenty. They’re at university.”

And intent on living life to the fullest, experiencing all that university had to offer, unlike Bea, who’d attended classes and tutorials before taking every hospitality shift she could get.

“How many hours a week do they work?”

“They’re looking for jobs.”Or so they said.