Page 15 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

“Do you think this is all a game?” Dad interrupts, his facade of calm on the brink of cracking once more.

“ You are the future of Hallazgo, Damian. Everything you do, no matter how harmless you think it may be, reflects on the company and on its perceived stability. Those dinosaurs you mentioned? Our board of directors? They, our shareholders, and any future investors are already forming opinions about you, which could very well affect what role you play in the years to come, if any.” If any.

Those words ping around in my brain like a warning bell as he frowns at me, the disappointment in his gaze clearer than ever.

“Your abuelo would turn over in his grave if he could see what you’ve become, and I refuse to leave the legacy of his life’s work in the hands of a…

” He falters as if he can’t find a strong enough word for what he wants to say, then gestures to literally all of me before finally spitting out, “pendejo.”

Frankly, I’m not sure whether to laugh out of surprise or to feel deeply insulted given the offensive nature of the term.

It’s not every day my old man calls me a moron, and he’s called me a lot of things over the years.

While it might not seem that harsh by American standards, if we were in Mexico, his word choice would’ve raised some brows.

I’ve definitely struck a nerve this time.

“So, that’s it?” I retort, unable to keep my rising panic from my voice. “You’re cutting me off without any warning? No ‘three strikes, you’re out’ or anything?”

In truth, if I were to tally up everything I’ve ever done to piss off my parents, I’d probably realize I’ve had way more than three strikes.

They just never reacted so conclusively to my behavior before.

They always let me off easy—a slap on the wrist here, a few choice words there.

They never threatened to kick me out of the family, and because of that, I thought they never would, especially after what we’ve been through.

But it’s been four years now since the Day We Don’t Speak Of, and I guess they’re tired of waiting for me to get over it.

To stop acting out. But the thing is, I feel like I have to hang on.

I have to act out to remind them. I have to care the most because, if I don’t, it seems like no one cares at all.

“You misunderstand me, hijo.” My father’s tone takes on a cajoling croon, making this conversation all the more ominous.

“This is your warning. You have until graduation to prove to not only your mother and me, but to the entire board, that you’re serious about your role in this family and at Hallazgo.

Failure will not be tolerated. There will be a vote, and if we do not believe you’re mature enough to start work at the company as of this coming summer, you won’t step into a position there at all, and you will officially be on your own.

No more handouts. No more excuses. It’s time for you to grow up.

” My dad raises a finger and makes a clicking sound with his tongue as if he just remembered something.

“Oh, and if you think you can just keep coasting, and fall back on some cushy trust fund like the other fresas at your school, you’re sorely mistaken. ”

I bristle at the way he says fresas—at the clear implication in his tone that I, too, am one of these privileged, spoiled brats he’s referring to.

His gaze hardens as he hammers the final nail in the coffin that is my shattering future. “Your abuelo didn’t believe in silver spoons. And neither do we.”

My jaw tenses. My abuelo believed in earning your keep, and detested when people raised their kids without an appreciation for hard work.

I’ve always known that about my family, and yet, I never imagined myself losing the privilege I grew up with.

Just as I never considered what I might do if I lost it.

But in my family, an inheritance is only bequeathed one way, and that inheritance is tied to Hallazgo. It’s conditional. Earned. And in my father’s eyes, I haven’t earned a fucking thing.

“I’m well aware,” I mutter, tight-lipped.

My mother takes hold of my father’s hand where it rests on the table, and together, they stare at me with piercing eyes, a force to be reckoned with. As for me, I just see them as heartless puppeteers pulling the strings controlling my life.

As I glance between them, I gradually begin to comprehend just what it is they’re asking of me.

They want me to show them I can act like an adult…

but what do adults do that I don’t? Have money?

Technically, it’s family money, but that’s got to count.

Check. Have sex? Check. Have a job? Well, that one’s all lined up, assuming I can prove I’ve changed, both to them and to a room full of stuffy old dudes who don’t even know me beyond my name.

Changed… The word settles on my skin like dried sweat, making me itch.

How the hell can I prove to them I’ve changed when I don’t have any inclination or desire to do so?

When I don’t want to be a carbon copy of my father or miserable like my emotionally-constipated mother?

Okay, sure, I can start attending my classes more often, but something tells me that won’t be enough to sway them. Not this time.

No, they want something else. Something to show them I can really be serious…

My mother squeezes my father’s hand in hers, and that slight public display of affection draws my focus, giving me a brilliant idea.

A grin slowly forms on my lips. They want me to demonstrate stability? To prove I can be serious? To convince them I’m no longer an immature playboy?

Well, challenge accepted, assholes. Because I think I know just the way to do that.

Now, I just need a willing participant.