Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

21. Chapter Twenty-One

I stare at the man in front of me, furious that he would invade my space for any reason, much less to start an argument within a minute of arriving.

“You are overreacting to a simple dinner invitation,” he says.

Gordon Armstrong hears the word “no” so infrequently that to him, it feels like I’m being dramatic.

Maybe I am. My dad has that effect on me. But I keep my voice even as I ask, “Why do you think you can come in here and dictate anything to me?”

“That’s my job as a father.”

“My obligation to obey you ended when I was eighteen.”

“Those are the words of an ungrateful and immature person.” His voice is deep, moving from impatient to tense.

I make mine icy. “What do I have in my life right now that I owe you for, Dad? Name one thing.”

“Your education.”

“Which I have thanked you for again and again even though your country club dues cost more than my housing and tuition. It’s the only string you have left to pull, but guess what?” I say the next words slowly, giving the final sound a sharp plosive. “Snip, snip.”

“That’s big talk for a woman who bought herself a luxury car instead of paying back that tuition as a matter of principle,” he says.

I snort. “You mean the used Mercedes out there that the club owner’s wife gave me? It was a gift when they moved back to Germany because I used my connections to build them the most elite bottle staff in Austin.”

He scoffs, and my fingers clench. “Your connections? You mean strippers and party girls? You could be mingling with the decision makers who run this city.”

I force myself to calm down before I answer. I don’t want him to hear even the hint of hurt in my voice that he can never acknowledge any of my accomplishments. “I will pay you back when I’m thirty, Dad. But right now, I split the rent four ways with women who also work for a living, and what doesn’t go to my living expenses doesn’t need your approval for how I spend it. If the tuition matters that much to you, take it out of my trust. About a month of interest should cover all four years, right?”

He takes a step back before holding his ground, and I’m glad for the slight extra space. My dad is tall with a button-down shirt perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, but it’s his presence that fills any room he’s in. “Madison, that is not—”

“You won’t do it, of course,” I say, ignoring his interruption. “You want to keep dangling it over me. The debt of my education. How about this, Dad? You know where all my disposable income goes instead of paying you back? A victim’s fund. For Dhaka. And as soon as I get my inheritance, that’s where it’s all going too.”

A dull flush appears on his cheeks. “Do not sit there and preach to me about your ideals when your own pride keeps you from doing any real good. You could have that money now if you wanted it.”

“If I marry someone you approve of,” I snap back.

“You don’t even have to marry to start wielding real influence,” he says. “You could take your place on the board of our philanthropy. You could have a controlling vote in a dozen different charities if you’re so altruistic. Your sister has more real-world influence than you do, and the ink on her degree isn’t even dry yet.”

“She’s not even in control of herself. You are.”

“Madison,” he says, making his voice calm. Reasonable. He’s projecting “adult in the room” vibes. It makes me want to yell the kind of words he says on the golf course.

“Dad.” I force it out through gritted teeth.

“Madison Leigh. You’ve made your point. Enough is enough. Come home. You can run the Armstrong Foundation.”

“Does it do anything besides sponsor the symphony fundraiser? Like right a single wrong this family has done?”

“That’s enough,” he says. “We paid our fines.”

“Because you lost every appeal!” The last bits of my temper snap, and I don’t care. “I am so sick of your—”

A loud crash from the stockroom cuts off my words.

That has to be Oliver.

Have I had a witness to this whole humiliating scene?