Page 14 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Besides, as I already told my parents, it was Mason who made the list public, not me.

I never intended for anyone to find out about it…

especially the girls who were on it. Okay, yes, it was kind of a shitty move to make the list in the first place, I admit that.

Though, technically speaking, the list was Mason’s brainchild, not mine.

Besides, it wasn’t like my behavior during the bet was any different than how I normally act in my pursuit of the opposite sex.

I was simply hooking up with whoever fit the specific criteria instead of anything with a vagina and a pulse.

I never led any of my hook-ups into believing we could be something more—by now, everyone at Conwick is aware I don’t date—and I definitely never went into it with the intention of hurting or embarrassing anyone. Again, that was all on Mason.

But then…I should have anticipated his almost impressive inability to keep his fucking mouth shut.

And for that, I suppose I am at fault—not only for trusting him but for thinking it wise to take him up on the bet to begin with.

As fun as it was, if I hadn’t agreed to the bucket list, then Mason wouldn’t have livestreamed the outcome…

or felt compelled to respond to the comments, revealing the identities of all the women I slept with.

Like Blondie…or my freshman year psych professor, who only kept her job because she was no longer my teacher at the time we had sex.

Dad huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yes, your three-line Instagram apology was very compelling.” Holding my gaze, he leans forward, tapping a finger against the crinkled tabloid cover. “Look at the date, hijo.”

Fisting my hands in my lap, I glance down at the date printed just above the barcode. September 6th.

Wait. That’s today’s date.

Why would tabloids be printing stories about this again?

News of it ran dry months ago. The video no longer exists—it was deleted within hours of Mason going live—and we destroyed every shred of evidence related to the list, including the names that were on it.

There is quite literally nothing left for anyone to hang over my head.

“Your”—Mom clears her throat, and I glance up, noting how uncomfortable she looks—“wager you made with your friend has certain investors feeling… unconvinced about your future involvement with the company. At least one has gone on the record about it that we know of. Hence why news of your little stunt has resurfaced despite our best efforts to quash it.”

Okay, I was wrong. My mother’s words don’t just hang over my head. They’re a goddamn guillotine.

“Do you understand the severity of the situation you have put us in, hijo? Without those investors, we could crumble.” My father shakes his head, and for the first time since I sat down at this table, I notice the fresh worry lines creasing his face.

My parents both stare at me in silent anticipation, but I don’t know what they expect me to say or what they want me to do. What can I do? It’s not like I can turn back time. What’s done is done.

“Then find new investors?” I suggest, even though I know it’s the wrong thing to say.

Dad exhales through his nose like an angry bull, while Mom lets out a delicate tut. “It’s not just the investors, Damian,” she says. “The board isn’t convinced either.”

I snort. “Who cares what those dinosaurs think? If it’s mediocre old guys you need, this country is full of them.”

“Damian.” My father’s tone holds a sharp, warning edge.

“What?” I fire back, feeling increasingly defensive with every word out of my parents’ mouths. My patience with this conversation is exhausted. “ You own the company. Tell them all to take their opinions and go fu?—”

“Enough!” He slams his palm down on the table, and the whole restaurant instantly goes silent.

So much for not making a scene. Dad must be furious to allow his composure to slip like that.

For a moment, he glowers at me, only looking away to cast a knowing glance at Mom. Then, with a deep, calming breath, he drops his voice and growls, “I will do no such thing.”

“Why?” I press, even as my brain tells me to shut the hell up.

His responding glare is scathing. “Because I agree with them.”

This admission takes a few seconds to penetrate my thoughts, during which time I just stare at my dad, open-mouthed. “What?” is all I can manage to say.

A tired sigh escapes him as he rubs a weathered hand across his face. “I’ve had enough, hijo. We’ve had enough.”

A pang strikes me square in the chest, and I swing my startled gaze toward my mother. “Mom?”

But she just shakes her head. “The partying. The bets. The skipping classes… This has gone on long enough. It ends now, Damian.”

Okay, the bet they knew about. Singular. But bets? Plural ? Partying? Missing classes? I flash them each a scornful look. “What the fuck? Have you been spying on me?”

Dad rolls his eyes at my offended tone. “We wouldn’t have to spy on you if you would learn to behave.”

I choke out a disdainful laugh. “Well, if you’ve been spying on me then you know I’ve already completed almost every required course for my major and minor, and only have bullshit core curriculum classes this semester—which only started four days ago, I might add.

And those lectures are full of useless information I’m never going to actually use, and which do nothing but force us to pump out more time and money for a degree.

A degree I’m sure Dad can just buy me if need be considering he bought my way into that school. ”

I know the exact moment I’ve crossed a line by the way my father’s face scrunches with rage and my mother’s complexion goes from a glowy uses-the-sunbed-at-least-once-a-week beige to owns-every-Celine-Dion-album-in-existence white.

At the same instant she says my name, scolding me for my impertinence, Dad hisses, “How ungrateful can you be? I worked hard to get where I am, and we have provided you with every possible opportunity to better yourself and set you up for the future. A good future. All we have ever asked is that you show a little incentive, but instead, you’ve squandered these past four years with embarrassing behavior befitting a toddler.

” He shakes his head, his expression darkening.

“The first year we could understand, but the last three?” He clicks his tongue, but doesn’t say anything more, and the lump growing in my throat is too thick for me to find the words to respond.

Sometimes, I think my father’s real middle name must be Irony.

Worked hard to get where he is? I don’t think so.

My grandfather was the hard worker in our family.

He was the one who founded a pharmaceutical company in Mexico that started from nothing and went on to make millions, allowing him to move to the States and expand his business here, where it continued to thrive until he was one of the richest men in the world.

He then moved his family to New England, away from their home in Guadalajara, though my abuela returned there after his death since that was where he wished to be buried.

As for Dad, he was in his late teens when he relocated to the U.S.

with my grandparents—still young enough to be a dependent for visa purposes—and a few years later, after Hallazgo really began to take off, he met my mother, who comes from old money, and whose lineage can be traced back to the Pilgrims who first settled in Massachusetts.

She’s always insisted she loves my father for his “wonderful personality,” but that’s hard to believe considering the guy acts like he has a giant foot up his ass ninety percent of the time.

In reality, I’m sure him being the heir to a billion-dollar company is what drew her eye.

My ma is nothing if not a gold digger, and my pops was all too happy to accept her family’s connections, of which there were many.

Any love between the two is manufactured bullshit.

My father continues, his voice terse, “We’re fed up with your nonsense, hijo. If it wasn’t for your mother’s repeated pleas on your behalf, I would’ve pulled the plug sooner.”

Now, that catches my attention. “Pulled the plug?”

He leans back in his seat, nostrils flared, and his dark eyes—so like my own—glint in the afternoon light flooding in through the window. “Cut off.”

My pulse quickens as the meaning behind those words sinks in, weighing in my bones like lead.

For several seconds, I stare at Dad in shock, blinking like an idiot. “Come on. You can’t be serious.” When he says nothing else, I look at my mother again. “Mom?”

She doesn’t meet my gaze. “All you had to do was get an education and behave. Why was that so difficult?”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re acting like I’m flunking out of school when I’m not. I’m doing fine. And might I remind you, everyone parties in college. It’s practically a requirement.” The words come out barely louder than a whisper rather than as the forceful protest I intend.

A sneer disfigures my father’s features. “ Fine is not CEO material. Nor is this.”

Placing his phone on the table, he spins the screen to face me, revealing a post on his X feed with the hashtag #hardonforHallazgo and a picture of me outside a busy Providence nightclub sporting a very conspicuous boner.

I don’t normally walk around with raging erections, but I lost a bet, and I am nothing if not true to my word.

You win some, you lose some, and I definitely lost that one, especially now that I’m banned from at least seven different Rhode Island nightclubs for life.

Still, I can’t deny it was funny.

My parents, however, looked unamused.

“Okay, first, that was just harmless fun. Hardly newsworthy. Second, you should be thanking me for the free promotion. I was simply proving our new erectile dysfunction drug really does wor?—”