“The car,” he snapped. “Your parents bought it for us. That sports car belongs to me too.”
“It’s in my name,” I replied evenly. “And it isn’t even at the house.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you’re hiding it.”
“It’s still at the dealership.”
He scoffed loudly.
“Do you realize how this makes me look? My coworkers will see you driving a supercar while I’m stuck in a regular sedan. People will talk.”
“I’m not planning my life around your coworkers’ opinions,” I answered.
His face turned red with anger.
“You’re humiliating me,” he hissed.
Then he stormed out of my office.
I tried to focus on work, but a knot of unease stayed in my stomach all afternoon.
A few hours later my phone rang.
Jason.
I expected another argument.
Instead he was laughing.
Loud. Proud.
“Guess what, Emily?” he said. “I burned your dream car.”
My heart dropped.
“What?”
“I’m at the house,” he continued. “You wanted to keep it from me? Now nobody gets it.”
I grabbed my purse and ran.
The whole drive home my mind filled with horrible images—the Lamborghini melting in flames, my father’s reaction, Jason standing smugly beside the wreckage.
When I turned onto our street, I saw the smoke first.
Thick gray clouds rising into the sky.