A Thin Line (My Billionaire Enemy #1)

Chapter 1

This day would not be over soon enough.

Earlier in June, I’d accepted the work-study position as Teaching Assistant for Dr. Leona Rakhimov, dean of the community college’s nursing program. Future health care workers in various programs in the department often called Dr. Rakhimov Cruella de Vil, a nickname she earned daily. In the seven weeks I’d been toiling under her, there had been two lessons she’d continually imparted on me: one was that the nursing program was the only thing keeping Winchester Community College afloat.

The second was that she was going to make a competent student employee out of me if it was the last thing she did.

If I hadn’t needed financial aid, I would have quit after the first day.

Today, though, she was worse than she’d ever been.

“Annalise!” she barked. Her voice sounded raspy through the stupid walkie-talkie she had me wearing on an ugly leather belt, all so I could be at her beck and call.

“I’m here, Dr. Rakhimov.”

“Give me an update.”

I’d never seen her this uptight about anything before. Although I hadn’t been working for her very long, I’d seen her run the gamut of emotions. The woman hugged the negative side, but this was probably the first time I’d ever known her to be nervous. She would have denied it, had anyone asked, but I couldn’t miss it.

I suspected I knew why, but any sympathy I might’ve had for her flew out the window.

We were preparing for a huge event that evening, one to celebrate the new simulation lab for the nursing program. Because I’d only taken (and finished) one class that summer—a quick four-week course focused on study habits, something I should have taken my first semester—I was now helping Dr. R. almost full-time, and most of our attention had been on preparing for the completion of the lab. Not so much the completion but the celebration that it would be ready for fall classes, and she’d invited dozens of the town’s wealthiest families to drink champagne and eat charcuterie while hobnobbing with Denver billionaire Sinclair Whittier.

I shuddered just thinking about it.

“I’m waiting .”

“Oh, uh…all the signage is up.” A jolt of panic charged up my spine as I remembered a crucial detail I’d almost forgotten. “And I’m getting ready to run to the print shop right now to get the programs.”

“All right. Keep me posted.”

The walkie-talkie spat out some static and went dead again. I clipped it back on my belt while walking around the lab, looking for my so-called helper Jenna, on loan for today only from Admissions.

I had to admit, despite my disgust with where the money had come from to create the lab, that this space really was a sight. It almost made me wish I was interested in being a nurse. But health care didn’t get me excited any more than any other degree the college offered—so I’d signed up for a general associate’s degree, the first step to getting out of this horrible town.

There were stations all throughout the series of rooms constituting the lab that simulated just about any health care situation the students might find themselves encountering. I walked past a “patient” in bed—an animatronic dummy—marveling at the machines hooked up to her. I’d already seen during a demonstration earlier in the week how the faux patient would actually “respond” to having her vitals taken. Although the dummies were interesting, they were also creepy. Their eyes were wide and round, their lips spread open as if they were in horrifying pain with no ability to scream.

Where in the name of heaven was Jenna?

I was about to call for her as I turned a corner and found her sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. “Jenna!”

The red-haired girl startled—and then jumped off the bed, still thumb-tapping on her phone. “Sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be on there. I was just—”

“Fine. Just smooth out the sheet—and don’t let Dr. R. catch you doing that.”

“I won’t.” Jenna finally looked at me, her brown eyes unapologetic. “So what’s up?”

“I need to run to the print shop to pick up the programs.” For a split second, I considered sending Jenna so she would actually be working —but I glanced at the clock on the wall. The print shop would be closing in about ten minutes and I didn’t dare leave something that important up to her. Regardless of what I thought of Dr. R. or the Whittiers, I needed to actually get something out of my experience at the college—which meant I needed to make sure things were done right while in this position. I could leave nothing up to chance. “So please doublecheck everything to make sure it’s set up right.”

“It is. You know it is. You just said as much to Cruella.”

I loved that her hearing worked perfectly when she was eavesdropping. “Fine. Just…” Frustrated, I shook my head, wishing this girl had an ounce of initiative. “…keep an eye on things.” We’d already tested all the devices the way the manufacturers had shown us so that we could demonstrate them, and I didn’t trust her to remember how to make sure everything was set—just how to test to make sure everything was working as designed. I’d already checked it three times today.

It was fine. But Dr. Rakhimov was demanding.

“On it, boss.” Managing to not roll my eyes, I turned toward the exit. Before I could take a step, Jenna asked, “Have you ever met him before?”

“Who?”

“You know who! Sinclair Whittier!”

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes—and I turned around to face her, irritated that she was just as enamored of the Whittier family as every other stupid person in Winchester. “No, I haven’t.” Thank goodness. Alone, I’d give him a piece of my mind and try not to claw his eyes out. What his family had done to mine could never be forgiven.

“Oh…you’re in for a treat. He is fucking hot!”

This time, I couldn’t help the eye roll, and I turned around to leave the lab. Time was of the essence. “I’m here to get a degree, not drool over some guy.”

“I’m not looking for eye candy, either, but for his looks and cash, who could resist?”

I could.

And out of the lab I went. Jenna’s last comment didn’t deserve a retort. Taking a deep breath, I increased my pace. The WCC campus was fairly small, but it had three buildings. Although they weren’t spaced too far apart, I was wearing three-inch heels instead of my usual sensible shoes. Dr. Rakhimov had lectured me more than once over the past two weeks about dressing appropriately for the occasion, so today I wore a dress with a floral pattern, tiny, delicate flowers on soft cotton. I’d known she wouldn’t like it, but because I wore a navy-blue jacket and black heels, she refrained from saying anything. Still, the first thing I’d gotten from her that morning was a once-over followed by an arched eyebrow and her perma-frown.

Good enough for me.

Halfway to the building that housed the print shop, the concrete sidewalk highlighting the pain in my feet, I felt tempted to take off my heels. I should’ve worn loafers or sneakers throughout the day and changed to heels for the celebration, but it was too late now. Still, I could offer my feet a little relief by going barefoot—if I dared.

Grimacing, I ignored the blisters forming on the back of my feet and pressed on without taking the shoes off. It was still blazing hot out, over ninety degrees, and considering I had to walk across the asphalt parking lot to reach my destination, I didn’t want to burn the soles of my feet, either. The shoes would remain on.

Soon, I was opening the door to the main building, reminding myself that this would all be over in just a few more hours. And the rest of the summer would be—

No, it wouldn’t. There was no need fooling myself. Dr. Rakhimov would find something else to fixate on...and something else to order me around about. But I still had three weeks before fall classes began, so I’d at least for now be able to read books I wanted to instead of having to.

To the left was the print shop and I pulled on the door. Locked.

No!

I looked through the glass pane in the door to see a young man moving around and I banged on the door. When he looked up, he said, “We’re closed.”

I shouted, “It’s not five o’clock yet!”

When he shrugged, I banged again. Fear had tightened every muscle in my body—and I wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “You have programs for tonight’s event.” Still, he didn’t turn around. “Dr. Rakhimov will not be happy if I don’t deliver them to her.”

My throat already hurt from yelling, but my shoulders slackened when he turned around. Of course. The name Rakhimov struck fear into every student on campus who’d had to deal with her. This kid might have hated his job enough to want to leave work five minutes early, but if Dr. R. didn’t get her programs when she needed them, he’d be lucky to have a job when all was said and done.

“Fine,” he spat out, turning to walk toward the door. He unlocked it before heading back to the counter.

Pulling the door open, I followed him, stopping on my side of the counter. “Thank you so much.”

I could hear the snide tone, suspecting he would have liked to have told me off, but he merely asked, “What do you need?”

“You should have sixty programs for the sim lab unveiling tonight.”

“Yeah.” Picking up a stack of said programs setting farther down the counter next to other printed materials, he added, “These look right?”

I glanced at the top one. They were wrapped in plastic, and I knew it wasn’t my place to rip them open. Besides, I knew Dr. R. had already approved the proof the week before. The cover, with a picture of one of the lab stations, along with text that included today’s date in the college’s branded colors, looked right to me. “Yep.”

He picked up a clipboard from behind the counter, jotted the date and time— before five PM—and then rotated it so that it was face up for me. Pointing to a box, he handed me a pen. “Sign there.”

After scrawling my name, I whisked up the programs and walked to the door. As I stepped out, I said, “Thank you.” And I really meant it.

Finally, the guy said the word I’d expected earlier. “Whatever.”

But his attitude didn’t matter. Dr. R. was not going to have my ass in a sling…not today at least.

Because I knew that the rest of this night would rush by in a frenzy, I paused outside the science building and sat on an iron bench, enjoying the shade of the building. I hadn’t checked in with my dad since leaving the house earlier in the day and I wanted to make sure he was all right. Setting the programs on my lap, I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and called his number.

“There’s my princess.”

“Hey, dad. Just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

“Same old, you know. How’s everything going over there?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to picture my dream place—a semi-dark quiet room, spacious, filled only with beautiful works of art…and no other people. It helped for me to get myself there so I wouldn’t worry my father. He already knew Dr. R. was no fun to work for, but he often felt guilty that I had to deal with her. And, as much as it had pained me, I’d told him the truth about the Whittiers’s involvement with tonight’s event. If he’d have found out later and I hadn’t said anything, he would have been hurt that I hadn’t told him.

Unfortunately, it had hurt to tell him—because that family was the reason why our lives had been difficult.

So I wanted my voice to sound light and breezy when I told him the basics. “It’s fine. Stressful, but fine. It’s going to be busy here in a bit so I just wanted to check in with you.”

“Just the usual, princess. I’m having to use the walker today.”

That made me sad—he’d been having to use it more and more as the disease ravaged his muscles. “But you’re getting around okay?”

“Of course. You know I’m no quitter.”

“Yeah, I know, dad.”

“I was going to tell you later, but you sound like you could use a little good news: I heard back from that clinic in Colorado Springs.”

One thing I’d always give my father credit for—he never gave up. Ever since being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis ten years earlier, he’d fought to stay mobile and, even though he’d finally had to quit working, he’d applied for Social Security disability and eventually began receiving Medicare. He’d demanded the best treatment and always asked if new solutions were on the horizon. So when he gave me this news, I had to ask a question. “Which one?”

“The one that offers periodic infusions that mitigate symptoms. You know…the one my doctor thought I’d be a good candidate for?”

I didn’t remember. Maybe he’d forgotten to tell me. “Oh, yeah.”

“They want to see me in October for an evaluation and possible treatment. I know you might have classes, but would you be able to—”

“Of course, dad. Yes. Just let me know the date when I get home and I’ll put it in my calendar.”

The relief in his voice was palpable. “Thank you. They really want a family member with me.”

“Yeah. No problem. Anyway…will you be okay till I’m home?”

“Sure will. My game shows are starting shortly, and I just put dinner in the microwave.”

Forcing a smile, I asked, “Do you need me to get anything before I come home?”

“Nothing I can think of. Do you know when you’ll get here?”

“No idea. Don’t wait up for me.”

He chuckled and then I did too—because we both knew he would be up when I got there. “Try to have fun, princess.”

“I will. You too.”

“And remember, no matter what they say, you can’t always blame the sins of the father on the son.”