Page 91 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

I blink at him. The tone of his text had me convinced this was about something else, some final straw I wasn’t even aware I had pulled, and that this would be the day they yanked the rug, and their connection and remaining love—assuming they still feel any toward me at all—out from under my feet.

I had been certain they were going to announce their intent to cut me off, and maybe they are, maybe that is what this is about.

But if so, I can safely say I have no fucking clue what I’ve done to deserve it.

Transactions? What transactions? I don’t know of any big expenditures I’ve made except?—

My skin pales, and all the blood rushing through me turns cold. Suddenly, the urgency—why they called me to the house instead of their usual mindfuckery at Fernando’s—makes sense.

Fuck. Fucking fuck . They know about the cash I’ve been sending to Blondie.

They must; that’s the only possible thing my dad could be referring to when he says “transactions.” It’s not like I’ve spent any differently than I normally do—aside from that day at The Couture Room and when I took Blondie and her friends out on the Lucia .

And, of course, there was the necklace I got her for Christmas.

But other than that? For someone with a fuck ton of money to burn, I’m surprisingly non-spendy. Generally. For the most part.

But my monthly payments to Blondie? Those would definitely stand out in a haystack of otherwise unconcerning expenditures, and what’s worse, it never occurred to me, in all my staggering idiocy, that my parents would eventually notice them.

And it was pretty much a guarantee they would.

Mr. Harrison is our family accountant—he manages all the Navarro finances, including those for Hallazgo—and as it’s the start of the new year, we’ve officially entered tax season…

which means, of course , he’d be looking at all our accounts to be certain everything is in order and take note of every last fucking penny.

A completely minor detail that didn’t cross my dumbass mind when I started sending those monthly sums to Blondie.

God, I can only imagine how this looks; they probably think I knocked her up.

I would ask myself what I was thinking, but the truth is, I wasn’t thinking at all.

And I sure as shit wasn’t considering the potential IRS implications.

I don’t even know how much you can legally gift to someone, or if our agreement would be classed as some form of employment.

I’ve never had cause to worry about such things, and I’ve certainly never paid much attention to our finances or to what happens behind the scenes to keep the Navarro name in good standing.

And it’s not like my parents have ever asked me about my spending before; they never had reason to.

Until now. Until I started doing something completely out of the norm—or rather, out of my norm. Shit, no wonder it caught Mr. Harrison’s eye; that guy is a fucking hawk on a bad day.

I can’t believe I was ignorant enough to think the money would go unnoticed. That five figures a month would easily fly under the radar in this family just because we’re worth billions. But then, I guess it’s true what they say: the rich don’t get rich by giving their money away.

On some level, part of me is convinced this whole agreement with Blondie was always destined to fail. That I would always fall victim to my parent’s ultimatum.

I just never anticipated it would be my own stupidity that would cause my downfall.

“I…” I try to speak, but my mouth and tongue are as dry as sandpaper, and I don’t even know what to say. Nothing comes to mind that won’t implicate me further.

“Is that Dornan girl blackmailing you?” my mother asks.

My eyes flit to hers, narrowing on her face, which is taut, like a wire on the verge of snapping. She holds my gaze as I resist the urge to bark out a humorless laugh.

Only a few weeks ago, she was smiling at Blondie and telling her how “wonderful” it was to see her. And now?

Funny how quickly Blondie went from Lexi to “that Dornan girl.”

“ No ,” I retort, my tone dancing on the edge somewhere between scathing and pleading. “You have it all wrong. This is entirely on me, not Lexi. She hasn’t done anything .”

My father scoffs. “Except extort tens of thousands of dollars from us,” he grumbles.

Forget accidental pregnancies, my parents think we’ve crossed into full-blown felony territory.

Of course, they would assume the worst. Although, after years of immaturity and immoral behavior on my part, I suppose I can’t really blame them.

I’ve set a precedent, and considering Blondie’s connection to the bet last spring, it’s to be expected they would jump to conclusions that I did something else shitty that might possibly result in blackmail.

That’s a fair assumption to make about me.

But what I won’t stand for is them thinking poorly of Blondie.

I round on my dad, my upper lip curled back in a sneer. “She didn’t extort it. I gave it to her.”

“Yes, and who gave you that money?” he challenges, pushing to his feet, his cheeks ruddy with anger.

“You don’t support yourself, you don’t pay your own bills, and yet, you’re out here throwing money around that doesn’t even belong to you.

We aren’t your personal piggy bank! And we did not consent for you to freely hand out what is ours. ”

It takes all my self-control not to shout back, even as the rage flares within me at the insults and insinuations hurled against my girlfriend.

I can handle the words thrown at me. My dad isn’t wrong, after all—it isn’t my money.

I am not financially independent. Not yet, anyway.

But they’re acting like I gave away millions of dollars, like we’re on the verge of financial ruin, when the reality didn’t even put a dent in their net worth.

They’re still in the one percent. They’re still among the wealthiest people in the world, even though the level of wealth our family has accumulated is far from ethical.

They’re acting like two fucking dragons who have just discovered they’re missing a few measly gold coins.

“I didn’t just give it away,” I growl, reaching for the only justification I have. “It was payment for services rendered.”

“Services?” my mother repeats, her voice a high-pitched squawk of distress. “What kind of ‘services’?”

“Yes, payment for what , exactly?” my father presses.

Resigning myself, I blow out a sigh through my nose, the last of that happiness I’ve been clinging to drifting away.

I try to think of Blondie’s face, to hold onto it for a moment longer, but it’s as if someone has overturned the table where the puzzle that is us—that is our story—has been assembled, and the pieces have scattered all over the place.

“To pretend to be my girlfriend,” I admit, the words like ash in my mouth. It feels weird to say it out loud, maybe because she is my girlfriend now. Because the lie has become something real.

The agreement had transformed—we had put the lie behind us—but it seems I have no choice but to face it. To take responsibility…just like my parents wanted.

“After we met at Fernando’s at the start of September,” I begin to explain, “I put out an anonymous ad on Craigslist, which Lexi answered. The deal was that she would pretend to be my girlfriend until graduation to help me show you I was capable of commitment. Of being a grown up. Of—” I hesitate, a lump rising in my throat that threatens to choke me into silence.

I force it down, but when I speak again, my voice is shaking.

“To prove I’m Hallazgo material. In return, I agreed to pay her fifteen thousand dollars a month. ”

“Oh, Damian,” my mother whispers beside me, her expression crumpling behind her hands, which she cups to her mouth as if to hold a sob at bay.

My insides twist at the look on her face, at not just the shock that shines in her eyes, but the heartbreak, clear as day, beyond it.

Maybe she didn’t think I was capable of stooping so low.

Or maybe she really was rooting for me, rooting for us —me and Blondie.

Either way, whatever glint of hope I saw in her eyes during that trip to Guadalajara is gone, extinguished like a flame in the rain.

All that’s left now is disappointment. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen her show since Jamie died.

A guilt that’s knife-sharp slides between my ribs.

“So, it was all a lie,” my father mutters. Closing his eyes, he pushes out a loud breath and shakes his head. “I knew something had to be wrong with that girl for her to date you after what you pulled with that bet.”

My restraint snaps like an overstretched elastic.

“There’s nothing wrong with Lexi!” As the shout explodes from my chest, I shoot to my feet so I’m on equal footing with my dad, and slam a hand down hard on the table, startling my parents, who gape at me with matching scandalized looks that would be comical if I wasn’t so pissed off.

A quiet voice in the back of my head warns me to keep my shit together, that lashing out won’t accomplish a damn thing, but a louder voice is pressing me to defend Blondie—to clear her name and try to make my asshole parents see reason.

The words spill out of me like water from an overturned glass.

“Her mom has cancer, and their insurance recently stopped covering her chemo meds. She was desperate . What would you have done if it was Jamie, and the only hurdle that had been in the way of him surviving was money?” That question makes both my parents flinch, but I don’t back down.

“Don’t fucking judge her,” I bite out. “At least she’s doing whatever it takes to give her mom the best chance to beat this. ”