“Don’t be. I have a couple of bills. It’ll be fine.”

That’s what he claims, but Curran’s covering everything and I need to start pulling my weight. I have interviews set up at a few law firms downtown. My work with Declan has also earned me interviews for the DA positions opening in the fall. In truth, a DA spot is what I want, but the starting salary is minimal compared to those at the more prestigious firms who phoned to schedule interviews. In the end, though, we have a baby coming, and he or she needs to come first.

My thoughts continue to whirl as I drive Curran to the precinct. “What are you thinking, angel face?” he asks.

“That I have a lot to do and little time to do it in.”

He bends to tie his boots. “I was thinking the same thing, but one step at a time, right? Did you call the doc to see if she can get you in sooner?”

“I did, but her schedule is pretty tight. According to the office staff, I’m still scheduled for my first appointment at fifteen weeks unless there’s a problem.”

Curran strokes my cheek. “But there’s no problem, right?”

“I’m assuming not.” I scrunch my nose. “Although I’m starting to feel nauseous in the afternoons. But I suppose it’s all part of being pregnant.”

He seems worried, but as I roll to a stop outside the precinct, his cop face replaces any concerns that remain. “I should be done around seven, okay? If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

I lean toward him so he can kiss me goodbye. “Okay. Be careful.”

“You, too.”

The warmth and affection behind his kiss linger as I pull away from the curb. The rookie assigned to me easily keeps up.

I work through my to-do list as I drive: grocery shopping, dinner prep, and mailing the résumés I still need to send out. I should head to the store and get the shopping out of the way. Instead, I find myself driving in the direction of my apartment.

Curran is right. In every way possible, it’s time to say goodbye to my past.

An odd sense seems to fill me the closer I draw to my old residence. Maybe it’s the reminder that it was never my home. My father made that clear enough.

I frown as moments of his cruelty play across my mind: his strikes, his words, his sharp tone, and how he made me think I was ugly and worthless. Curran never agreed with him; even back in college when I was unhealthy and frail, he saw something in me that I didn’t know was there.

“We would have hooked up a lot sooner if you’d given me a chance,” he told me the other night.

“Um” had been my only response.

The smile triggered by what Curran said fades. As much as I’m grateful for him, I can’t help feeling ashamed. I should have found the strength without him, and within me, to break from Father’s hold. I don’t want to be the woman some hulking hero needs to rescue—Curran deserves better than that—but it seems that’s exactly what I’ve become.

My foot slams down on the emergency brake after I place his large truck in park. I should be more aware of my surroundings, but it seems I’ve grown too dependent on the guards who shadow me. If I were more focused, I would have seen my father’s car.

And his presence in my apartment wouldn’t surprise me like it does.

The smoke from his cigar swirls into the air from where his hand rests on the couch. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. According to the evening news, he’s been the driving force behind Spencer’s campaign for mayor. Yet as busy as he’s been, that hasn’t stopped his constant calls to my landline, all of which I’ve ignored. Nor has it likely stopped his uninvited visits. But I’ve been staying with Curran and have thankfully avoided him…until now.

His back is to me, but I hear the slurp he takes from his glass just fine. My eyes skim to the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table beside him. “At last my daughter returns,” he says.

The young police officer who escorted me up turns to me. “Ma’am?” he asks, questioning whether he should throw my father’s ass out.

My first instinct is to return to Curran’s truck, with the rookie close to my side. But my stubbornness and anger hold me in place. “It’s okay,” I tell him.

I’m not sure he thinks it is. He moves ahead, taking his time to sweep the apartment, likely expecting me to change my mind. When he finishes, he stops in front of me, making a point to look at my father. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you,” I answer, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

He waits a moment before turning on his heel and leaving. Like the rest of the cops watching me, he knows Curran and I are more than friends. He doesn’t want to answer to him, but he probably also doesn’t think he should stay unless asked.

I wait for the elevator doors to shut behind the young cop before I speak again. “What are you doing here?” I ask my father.

He mashes the tip of his cigar on the saucer to the left of his scotch. “Don’t talk to me that way.” His words are slow and precise, with an underlying warning.

I release my tight grip on the doorknob and force myself forward, fantasies of smashing him over the head with my purse swimming in my mind. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

He stands slowly, taking his time before hitting me with an expression as cold as the blood streaming through his veins. My first instinct is to curl inward. But I don’t. Not this time.

My non-reaction seems to give him pause. It doesn’t last, and of course he’s far from done. He lifts a thick manila folder from the table and tosses it on the floor. It slides across the smooth wood, stopping a few feet in front of me. “See for yourself.”

He expects me to fall at his feet and retrieve like the dog he mistakes me for. I lock my knees in place, refusing to move. “No.”

Father stills, his expression acquiring that of a man seconds from exploding until an unearthly smile cuts across his face. “It’s a bill for two hundred and forty thousand dollars,” he says. “I would think you’d want to see it.”

He laughs without humor as the bottom of my stomach falls to my knees. “What’s wrong, Contessa? Surely you knew the path to becoming an attorney was an expensive one to undertake.”

“You…” I attempt to swallow, but my breaths are coming too quick. “You were supposed to pay it—all of it.”

Father shakes his head thoughtfully. “That’s the impression I left you with, wasn’t it?” His smile vanishes. “Sit down.”

Says the master to his bitch.

“I said, sit,” he repeats when I simply stand there.

My eyes fix on the thick envelope, but I refuse to touch it. “You were supposed to pay this,” I repeat, my voice barely registering.

I turn left, then right, my fingers clutching the front of my tiny tank top and the long skirt fluttering around my ankles. This isn’t a joke, or some twisted lie. This is the ace up his sleeve Curran warned me about. “How?” I demand. “How could I possibly be allowed to attend a prestigious law school without you contributing a single dollar?”

Annoyance ripples across his face. My lack of obedience apparently isn’t part of his plan. “The Newart name goes a long way,” he says. “It pardoned and postponed your financial obligations until your graduation.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. “No. It wasn’t your name—it was your money.” In his scowl I see the truth behind my accusation. I gasp. “Tell me, how much did you donate to the school in order for them to dismiss such a large sum until now?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the back of the couch as if nothing matters, despite the fact that my world is crumbling around me. I have no job, no credit, no money, and in excess of two hundred and forty thousand dollars to atone for.

“Eighty thousand dollars each year,” he responds, his satisfied tone jolting me back to reality. “I donated tuition, books, and room and board to a more deserving soul. Marlon Thomas, a young man from Harlem. Do you know Marlon? He’s quite grateful for my generosity.”