Stepbrother Billionaire(60)

“Is that what I’d be to you?” Emerson asks heatedly, “A meal ticket?”

“Of course not!” I cry, “I love you, Emerson. I loved you when you were a penniless eighteen-year-old and I love you now!”

“So what the f*ck are we arguing about?” he shouts, slamming his fist down on the island. “It’s just money, Abby. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, it—”

“It means nothing,” he insists, “You sharing my life, my resources, wouldn’t mean that you were bound to me, or that you owed me anything. It wouldn’t mean I had power over you, it would just mean...that you we here. With me. That we were in this together.”

“Emerson, I don’t...” I whisper, trying to wrap my head around what he’s suggesting. “I don’t know how to think of money as anything but a bargaining chip. My family—”

“Your family is f*cked up, pardon my saying,” he cuts me off. “Your grandparents use their money as a weapon. But me? I’d like to use mine as a gift. A way out, for both of us. Why won’t you let me do that for you? For us?”

“I’m just...I’m sorry...” I say, trying to blink back the tears that have sprung to my eyes. “I just need to think.”

“Fine,” Emerson says, his jaw set.

He turns on his heel, storms across the loft, and grabs up a retractable leash from the side table. “I know I should just be some alpha man idiot and storm out into the wind or whatever the f*ck, but Roxie needs a walk.”

The Westie goes galloping over to Emerson when he whistles. Emerson attaches the leash to her collar and looks up at me. “I’ll give you some time to think everything over. Have some wine if you like. If you want to leave before I get back and find some other way...I won’t hold it against you. Just make up your mind, Abby. You know what I want.”

Before I can say another word, he wrenches open the front door and disappears with Roxie on his heels. I fall back against the kitchen island, letting the baffled tears stream down my face. With shaking hands, I fish out a bottle of Cabernet from the stockpile. Pouring myself a very tall glass, I let my warring thoughts pour out through my mind as well.

Emerson is willing to leave his job and share everything he has with me. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to abandon my job at Bastian, have no place to live, and hardly any money to my name. If he and I were to start a life together now, I’d be bringing nothing to the table. Shudderingly, I remember how I felt about Deb when she showed up on the scene. I thought she was desperate, and manipulative, and a helpless dependent. How would what Emerson is proposing make me any different from her?

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been living off the generosity of my family for my whole life so far. Sure, I worked hard to get into a good college and paid most of my tuition with scholarships, but I have privilege coming out the wazoo. And now, what—I’m just going to marry rich and have that be that? How am I supposed to live with myself if I go down that path? I have to earn my own way through life. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

I take a huge gulp of wine and feel it go straight to my head via my empty stomach. Getting trashed is not the solution here, but I have no other brilliant ideas. I wish that I had someone to talk about all of this. Riley’s probably furious with me for getting us evicted, and it’s not like I’m going to call my grandparents up. It’s times like this when I most keenly feel the loss of my mother. I wish more than anything that she was here for me to talk to. She’d be able to help me through this mess. But of course, that’s just a dream. I’m all alone in this, as ever.

“Well, Self,” I mutter, raising the wine glass to the empty apartment, “It’s just you and me again. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do.”

I nearly lose my balance on the bar stool as a loud knocking rings out from the front entry way. That’s weird. Emerson just left five minutes ago, and besides, he has a key. We didn’t order any food, and there’s no way Riley’s swinging by to say hello after what I’ve done to her. So then who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

Cradling my wine glass, I stand and cross to the front door. Probably it’s just Emerson’s dry cleaning, or something. Billionaires have things like dry cleaning delivery, right? I step into the entryway and unlock the front door, swinging it open with my free hand.

There’s a man standing on Emerson’s front steps. He wears a dated but clean sport coat, a fair amount of stubble, and scuffed shoes that must once have been very expensive. His hands are clasped nervously in front of him, and his hunched shoulders give him a look of preemptive defeat. There are red splotches across his nose and cheeks, signature features of an alcoholic. The man is staring at shoes, and for a moment I can’t place him. But then, he lifts his face to me, and I feel the wind rush out of my lungs.

“Dad?” I breathe, paralyzed in the doorway.

“Hello Abigail,” he replies with heartbreaking formality. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. Well. I know it is, but...Can I come in?”

“Oh. Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in.

My dad shuffles past me into Emerson’s loft, looking as frail as I’ve ever seen him. I stare after him, utterly baffled by his sudden appearance here. I haven’t seen him since my masters program graduation ceremony, and even then he barely said hello before disappearing into thin air again. He’s not exactly an active presence in my life, so what the hell is he doing here, on one of the most intense nights of my life?