Chapter 6

The word "Dad" hung in the humid air of the small living room, echoing louder than a gunshot.

Burt's hand, which was reaching for his own rib, froze in mid-air. Aimee stared at Cameron as if he had just sprouted a second head. Her mouth fell open slightly, her brain completely short-circuiting.

Cameron didn't bat an eye. He brought the rib to his mouth and took a slow, deliberate bite. The thick, dark barbecue sauce smeared against the corner of his perfectly sculpted lips.

Burt was the first to recover. He let out a loud, booming cough to cover his shock, but the deep wrinkles around his eyes crinkled with undeniable pleasure. He muttered, "At least the boy's got some manners," and grabbed a rib for himself.

Aimee scrambled to grab a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table. She shoved it into Cameron's hand, her eyes wide with panic. Under the cover of the low coffee table, she swung her leg and kicked him sharply in the shin, a silent warning to stop overacting.

Cameron's face remained completely stoic. He calmly wiped the sauce from his lip. Then, beneath the table, he shifted his long leg. He hooked his calf around Aimee's ankle and pressed her leg firmly against the sofa frame, trapping her foot completely. The heat of his leg burned through her denim overalls. Aimee gasped softly, her face flushing, but she couldn't pull away without causing a scene.

The dinner progressed. Burt reached under the table and pulled out a six-pack of cheap, generic-brand beer. He popped the cap off a bottle with a loud hiss and shoved it across the table toward Cameron.

Aimee's heart leaped into her throat. "Dad, Cameron only drinks-"

Before she could finish the sentence, Cameron picked up the sweating glass bottle. He clinked it against Burt's bottle, tilted his head back, and took a long, deep swallow.

The cheap, metallic taste of the beer hit the back of Cameron's throat. He suppressed a grimace, forcing his facial muscles to remain relaxed. He lowered the bottle and gave Burt a firm nod. "Crisp."

By the time they finished the ribs, the tension in the room had significantly thawed. Burt wiped his hands on a towel, his expression suddenly turning dead serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Now," Burt said, his voice dropping an octave. "About that ten million dollars."

Aimee's stomach plummeted. The blood drained from her face. Her hands began to sweat profusely. She stared at her father, terrified that he had somehow uncovered the truth about the marriage contract.

"I appreciate the generosity," Burt continued, looking directly into Cameron's eyes. "But I need you to understand something. I am not selling my daughter. That money is not a dowry, and it sure as hell isn't charity."

The old mechanic straightened his back. A fierce, unbreakable pride radiated from his posture. "That money is a loan to the Berry Custom Workshop. I will pay back every single cent, with interest. Do we have an understanding?"

Cameron looked at the older man. He saw the fierce dignity that poverty and hardship hadn't been able to crush. He dropped the fake, accommodating son-in-law persona. His eyes sharpened, returning to the calculating, respectful gaze of a true businessman.

He didn't offer empty reassurances. He picked up his beer bottle and held it out.

"I expect to see the workshop's quarterly financial reports by next month, Mr. Berry," Cameron said, his voice ringing with absolute, equal respect.

Burt let out a loud, genuine bark of laughter. He slammed his bottle against Cameron's. "You'll have them on your desk, boss."

Aimee watched the exchange, her chest tight. A massive wave of relief washed over her, followed quickly by a profound sense of gratitude. Cameron had perfectly preserved her father's dignity.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of white light illuminated the living room window. Less than a second later, a deafening crack of thunder shook the entire house. The floorboards vibrated under their feet.

The sky opened up. A torrential, violent summer thunderstorm slammed into Brooklyn without warning. Rain lashed against the glass like bullets.

Aimee's phone, sitting on the table, shrieked with an emergency alert. The screen flashed red: NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE - SEVERE FLASH FLOOD WARNING. BROOKLYN STREETS FLOODING. DO NOT TRAVEL.

Cameron frowned. He pulled his phone from his pocket to call his driver, but the screen showed "No Service." The storm was interfering with the cell towers.

Burt stood up and walked to the window. He peered out at the street, which was already turning into a rushing river of muddy water. He turned back to the room, his face set in stone.

"You're not leaving tonight," Burt announced, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

Aimee jumped up from the sofa, her heart hammering wildly. "Dad, no! Cameron has... he has insomnia. He can only sleep in his own bed. We have to go back to Manhattan."

Burt scowled, pointing a stern finger at his daughter. "Don't be ridiculous, Aimee. You want your husband to drown on the expressway? The Maybach won't make it two blocks in this water."

Burt turned to Cameron. "You'll sleep in Aimee's room tonight. It's small, but the sheets are clean."

Aimee whipped her head around to look at Cameron. Her eyes were wide, silently screaming at him to refuse. She needed him to be the ruthless, uncompromising billionaire right now.

Cameron looked at the sheets of rain violently pounding against the window. He looked at Aimee's terrified, pleading face. And then he looked at Burt's stubborn, protective stance.

To Aimee's absolute horror, Cameron gave a short, polite nod.

"Thank you, Dad," Cameron said smoothly. "Sorry for the intrusion."

Burt grinned, clapping Cameron on the shoulder before heading to the hallway closet to find extra towels.

Aimee stood frozen in the middle of the living room. The blood roared in her ears. The reality of the situation crashed down on her. She was going to have to spend the entire night locked in a tiny room, sharing a 1.2-meter-wide single bed with a man who terrified her.