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Harley
Therapist? What therapy is Clad even going for? And why would my sister be meeting his therapist? Are they that serious?
I swallow hard, licking my lips as if they're dry—though they're not.
"What about my money?" I ask, pushing everything else aside. "Give me back my money first, then we'll talk."
He chuckles. "Do you think you're in a position to be making demands, Harley?"
"I'm not making demands, Clad. I'm simply asking for what's mine." My temper flares, and I have to remind myself that half the household is asleep. And by half, I mean my mother—the rest aren't even home.
"Really? Sounds like a demand to me. And you don't have the liberty or the leverage to make any."
I close my eyes, blinking rapidly. Blinking away tears? Why am I sad over a jerk who not only broke my heart but also stole a hundred grand from me?
Don't be pathetic, Harley.
I scream at myself internally.
