One heir One night with the Billionaire

KATHLEEN'S POV

 "Kathy, you can't leave the kitchen unattended. That's why you're the chef. En un entorno profesional, es mejor ser formal." (In a professional setting, it's better to be formal).

 Aunt Dolores snatched my phone from my hand, her tone sharp. I opened my mouth to protest but closed it just as fast.

"Fine. I should have thought better before leaving, but I just couldn't stay back-not with government officials coming today.

We haven't paid our taxes in a while," I explained as I covered the account book on the table. "Plus Dinner has been running at a loss for weeks, but that doesn't mean we're giving up on what your father built for years. No podemos hacer eso." (We can't do that.) "I know... but at this point, I can't help myself, Aunt Dolores. You know how things have been for us since Dad's accident. I barely made it out of college, only to end up jobless.

 I can't think straight anymore. Dad's surgery needs to happen, our rent is due, we can't keep up with taxes and-" My voice cracked, lips trembling.

 "Are you going to cry now? Because if you do, I swear I'll laugh," Andrew teased, dropping flour on the counter.

"We haven't had customers in days. They're all going downtown to other diners. The business needs renovation and more staff when things pick up.

If only you'd let me-" he stopped short.

 "No, Drew. You've done enough for me already. I can't drag you deeper into this mess. It's not fair," I said, tying my hair into a ponytail.

"Let's just focus on work," I declared before heading out. I checked my empty credit cards and the keys to my dad's old truck. I felt the lump rise in my throat. Everything was sinking-and I had no idea how to fix it. I hated how helpless I felt, like nothing I did was enough.

 "You're late, Miss Brook," the landlord snapped as I stood in his office. "I don't think we have anything left to discuss if you keep bringing up new stories every time rent is due."

"We've never owed you before, sir, and you know that. Things have just been really hard for my family lately..."

 "And your father's in a wheelchair, your sister needs tuition, your restaurant's failing, and now you're mourning your dead cat. What's the next excuse, Miss Brook? I'm losing my mind."

 "Sir-fine. I lied about Lucifer dying. I didn't know what else to say," I admitted.

His secretary stifled a laugh. "You named your cat Lucifer and expect me to help? I've tolerated your madness long enough. ¡Que Dios te ayude!" (May God help you!)

"Amén, señor. Pero realmente necesito su ayuda." (Amen, sir. But I really do need your help.)

"What am I? Santa Claus?" he scoffed, rubbing his bald head.

I stuttered, trying to form a reply, but he cut me off. "Shut the door on your way out, Miss Brook."

 I left his office and went straight to the hospital to get my father's medication.

When I got home, there wasn't a cent left in my pocket. "Buenas noches, Papi," (Good evening, father) I said, bending to kiss his forehead. "Oh, Kathy. I've been worried.

You're home so late again," he said gently. "Papi, I just had some things to handle. But I'll try to be home for dinner next time."

Just then, Ina stepped out of the kitchen. At eighteen, the youngest in the family had a sharp tongue and wild dreams I couldn't afford to feed.