He did not look like the golden boy who could do no wrong.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were wide and rimmed with red.

“Dad,” Brandon breathed, pushing past me into the warm entryway. “They called again. They’re going to freeze the commercial accounts by tomorrow morning.”

He stopped cold when he saw Arthur Pendelton standing near the parlor door.

The lawyer did not blink, his hand still resting on his leather briefcase.

“Brandon,” my father said, his voice dropping an octave. “Go upstairs and change.”

“No,” I said, stepping between my brother and the stairs. “He stays right here.”

Brandon looked at me then, his gaze flickering with a mixture of anger and desperate panic.

“Ava, please,” he muttered, wiping rainwater from his chin. “Not now.”

“Your father just froze my savings account, Brandon,” I said, my voice steady despite the shaking in my chest. “The money I earned at the clinic. The money for my rent and my tuition.”

Brandon looked at our father, confusion washing over his pale face.

“You did what?” Brandon asked.