Becky's POV

You idiot! You are fixing to get fired! My mind screamed at me, but I didn’t care. No one insults my dad, I don’t care how rich, hot and sexy they look.

“Are you talking to me?” He seemed more surprised than angry.

“What’s going on here?” The supervisor came over to us.

Uh, oh, now you are in trouble.

“She’s insulting Mr. Dale,” Ben said eagerly, and repeated what I had said.

“Is this true?” The supervisor was alarmed.

“I am sorry sir, I didn’t mean it,” I apologized.

“It’s okay,” the handsome dude said, “it’s nothing really.”

I was surprised to hear him say that.

“It is something. On no account do you insult a customer. You know the rules,” my supervisor said.

“I know, I am sorry sir. It won’t happen again,” I said meekly.

“No, it won’t. You are fired!”

“What? But I said I am sorry.” I gestured with my palms opened wide in surprise.

“And I said you are fired,” he repeated, then added, “please leave the premises, you have five minutes.”

“This isn’t necessary, no harm was done.” Dale seemed anxious for me not to get into any trouble.

“I am sorry sir, but it is. She has violated our policy. She has to leave.”

I was too stunned to say anything. I looked at them. Ben was grinning, the supervisor looked serious, but Dale looked genuinely upset.

I turned and headed for the locker room. Minutes later, I left the Billionaire Club in a daze. As I headed down the street, a car coming in the opposite direction pulled up to me.

The driver, a young man with straw-colored hair, stuck his head out the window.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“I’m fine,” I answered briefly.

“Are you sure? Perhaps I can help.”

“I’m fine,” I moved on. I was in no mood to be nice.

All I could think of was I had lost my job and would soon be homeless.

As I walked down the street, I couldn't help but think of my numerous challenges, especially my dad's demise.

***Flashback****

Two weeks earlier…

I stared into space. My dad was gone.

My mom sat beside me. As usual, her attention was focused on Wendy, my little sister. I might have been invisible for all she cared. I looked around the auditorium, most of the mourners were my father’s employees, and a few of his friends.

He had been an electrical contractor and ran a small firm with around fifty employees. Business had been good, we lived in a modest bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood, and Wendy and I attended good school. Then, in February, all that started to change.

That day, I came home from school to meet dad clutching his chest.

“Dad, what is it?” I was alarmed.

He stared at me gasping soundlessly.

I immediately knew he was having a heart attack. I called emergency services, then my mother.

I hung up and turned to my father and began performing CPR. Help finally came and he was taken to hospital.

He was wheeled into the ED, while I sat worrying in the waiting room.

Would he be okay? Mom came in. “What happened? Where is he?”

“A heart attack. He has been taken to the ED,” I explained, getting up to hug her, but she brushed me away and sat down.

“Tell me what happened?” She demanded.

Sighing, I sat beside her and explained everything.

“I am sure he will be okay, mom.” I tried to reassure her by placing my hand on hers.

She removed her hand in anger, then got up and went to get coffee.

I sighed again.

I didn’t know why mom hates me. She and dad loved me when I was younger. Maybe because for ten years I’d been their only child. Then Wendy had been born and all that had changed. She had suddenly become hostile and nothing I did was good enough anymore. Wendy was now her favorite. Dad’s attitude never changed. He continued to shower me with love, and we became so close.

The doctor walked up to me.

“Is he okay? Please tell me he is okay,” I pleaded tearfully.

“He is stable now,” she assured me.

“Was it a heart attack?” I asked.

“Yes, but he is okay now. He was lucky you were there.”

Mom came to join us. “Is my husband going to be okay?” She asked.

The doctor repeated what she had told me, then added, “He will be able to go home in a couple of days.”

“Can we see him?” my mom asked.

“Sure,” the doctor replied.

My dad looked fine, only tired. He smiled at me.

“Dad!” I went to hug him. “Thank God you are okay.”

“Thanks to you sweetheart.” He hugged me.

“Leave him to rest,” my mom said harshly.

“It’s okay honey, I’m fine,” my dad told her.

“No, you are not, you work too hard. The doctor says from now on you’ve got to take it easy,” mom told him. “The business will be fine, you’ve got to rest.”

My dad was discharged a few days later but refused to reduce his work load.

In March, he suffered a stroke. He was in hospital for months, then was sent home. Mom looked after him by day and I took over at night. It was hard for me, but I loved my dad and did it gladly. Just when it seemed he was getting better, he suffered another stroke and died on the way to hospital.

I snapped out of my reverie. People at the funeral service were rising. I rose too, and we all went to the graveside.

The tears started up again. I had been crying since my father died, and had thought by now the tears would have all dried up, but I was wrong. I bit my lips and looked around for mom and Wendy. I saw them a few feet away. Mom had an arm around Wendy’s shoulder. I walked over to them hoping to have the other arm around my shoulders, but when I stood close to her, she wrapped both arms around my sister. I felt colder and lonelier than ever.