He paused, then softened his voice, taking my hand. “Claire, just bear with it a little longer. Once I’m in with the Whitmores, I’ll buy you whatever you want—better than anything that corner-shop dad of yours could give you.”
My fingers went cold.
A corner-shop dad? That was the story I’d made up so he wouldn’t feel pressured. In reality, my father was at the Whitmore Group headquarters right now, reviewing Daniel’s project proposal—the one whose every data point I had stayed up late to verify.
“Are you hungry?” He went into the kitchen and returned with a delicate cake box. “I passed by the dessert shop—Sophie says their mango mille crêpe is the best. You should try it.”
The sight of the bright yellow mango slices instantly made my stomach churn with a familiar nausea. I was severely allergic to mango—once in college I’d nearly gone into anaphylactic shock after eating some. I had told him this more than ten times.
“I’m not eating that. It’s too rich,” I said, stepping back.
“Come on, you haven’t had much appetite lately.” He scooped up a bite and held it to my lips, his tone the coaxing sort you’d use with a child. “Sophie says sweets make people happy.”