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“I’ll cover it,” he says. “I can use my Venmo.”

“No, it’s my idea, my treat.” I wave him off. I know there’s a credit card in my dad’s office. Emergency use only. But a bunch of hungry hockey players is definitely an emergency.

I head down the hallway and push the unlocked door open. My dad wouldn’t care that I’m in here as he’s never been much of a secret keeper. He just hates messes and likes everything exactly how he likes it. So I barely touch anything except for the top drawer.

It's mostly empty, except for some pens and a highlighter.

I try a side drawer, lifting the top folders, fanning through them a bit. Receipts. Not what I’m looking for.

Sighing, I move to the third drawer. Bingo. Well, almost. Still no credit card, but there’s a manila envelope on top of old serviceinvoices. This looks like a bill drawer, and where there are bills, there are payment methods.

I flip the folder open, and my brows draw together in an instant.

Inside is a copy of a receipt from the body shop that fixed my car last spring. My stomach tightens.

I never told my parents about that accident.

Initially, I figured I'd have to tell them. I knew my dad would still find a way to make it all my fault, even though it wasn’t. But when Bill got my car into the shop that very day, and it was fixed within twenty-four hours, I took it as a sign that I didn’t need to worry them. My parents never even saw the dent.

So how do they have a receipt for this when I never got one? And why?

My heart revs up as I dig deeper, pushing papers around. That’s when I see the name on the next folder.

Koren Roberts.

Her name is typed on the top like she’s on my dad’s payroll.

I stare for a full five seconds before opening it.

The first thing inside is a copy of a glowing, pages-long recommendation letter from my mom to the school Koren attended in Paris. My mom said she wrote this for her. That’s all fine and dandy.

My breath catches when I see the next document.

A donation form.

Pledged from my parents’ charitable trust directly to the university and on the condition that they award Koren a full-ride scholarship.

My hands go cold.

That internship was the reason she left. The thing that tore us apart. I thought it was fate, but this is interesting.

This isn’t fate.

This is my parents bribing the school to take her.

My knees get weak and my heart pounds. I drop into the chair, staring at the paper that makes me feel like the last year of my life was written by someone else. My parents are generous. I would have been okay with them helping her, because it would have been helping me. But why didn’t I know about the money? That seems sus.

I keep digging, half-numb, fingers moving like they’re not mine.

Receipts.

Names I don’t recognize, but something in me says not to overlook them.

I quickly type one into Google on my phone.

PR consultants. It looks like they run a sports gossip blog.

Why would my parents be payingmedia people?