Pathetic.
I threw off the covers—too soft, too expensive, too much like sleeping in a cloud that smothered instead of comforted—and padded barefoot across the marble floors to the bathroom. The penthouse was exactly as I'd left it,: sterile, modern, showcasing the kind of wealth that whispered instead of shouted. Minimalist furniture in shades of gray and black. Abstract art on the walls that cost a fortune and meant nothing. A kitchen I'd never cooked in because there were three restaurants in the building and a chef on call.
It felt like a museum. Or a mausoleum.
I splashed water on my face, avoiding my reflection—hollow-eyed, scraggly, looking like I'd aged a decade in a week—and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. Coffee. I needed coffee. Then I could think. Make lists. Figure out the logistics of walking away from Sterling Industries without my father destroying me in the process.
The kitchen was spotless, untouched since the cleaning service had come through yesterday. I moved toward the espresso machine—a gleaming Italian monstrosity—and was reaching for the beans when the door to the service entrance opened.
"Mr. Sterling!"
Maria, one of the building's staff, hurried in with a bright smile that felt like assault at 4:30 AM. She was trailed by Thomas, another staff member, both of them in crisp uniforms. "We heard you moving around. Let us prepare your coffee—and breakfast? We have fresh croissants from the bakery downstairs, or I can prepare your usual omelet—"
"No." The word came out harsher than I meant, and I softened it with effort. "Thank you, Maria, but I've got it. I can make my own coffee."
She looked genuinely distressed, like I'd suggested something scandalous. "But Mr. Sterling, that's what we're here for. Your father specifically requested—"
"I don't care what my father requested." I gentled my tone, seeing her flinch. "I appreciate it, really. But I need to do this myself. Please."
They exchanged glances—the kind that saidrich people are weird—but retreated with murmured apologies, leaving me alone in the cavernous kitchen. I stood there, hands braced on the counter, breathing through the claustrophobia.
This. This was my life here. People doing everything for me, anticipating my needs before I felt them, removing any semblance of self-sufficiency until I became a decorative object in my own existence. At the ranch, I'd made coffee at 5 AM in Pops' ancient percolator, burning it half the time, and it had tasted like living. Here, perfection was delivered on a silver platter, and it tasted like nothing.
I made the coffee myself—espresso, too strong, slightly burnt because I was out of practice with this machine—and took it to the windows, watching Dallas wake up. The skyline glittered with early morning ambition: cranes building higher, traffic starting its crawl, the relentless pulse of a city that never questioned its own importance.
My phone buzzed. Then again. And again.
I checked it with a sinking feeling. Messages from people I'd barely thought about in months.
Marcus Liliard:Heard you're back in town! Drinks at The Mansion tonight? Everyone's asking about you.
Garrett Thompson:Bro, where have you been? Need the full Oklahoma story. Dinner this week?
Brad Wilson:Sterling! The prodigal son returns. Let's hit the links this weekend.
I stared at the messages, at the casual assumption that I'd just slot back into our old patterns—expensive dinners, bottle service, golf at clubs that cost more to join than most people made in a year. These weren't friends. They were networking contacts, people I'd partied with because our fathers did business together.
I left them all on read.
Another buzz. This one from Solène.
Solène:Welcome back to civilization! Coffee this week? I've missed you baby. I knew you'd comeback.?
Followed immediately by:Also my parents are throwing a gala Friday. You should come. As my date? No pressure, but... it could be fun. Like old times.
Like old times. When we'd been the golden couple of Dallas society—pretty, connected, perfectly curated for Instagram. Before I'd realized that our entire relationship had been performance art.
I typed and deleted three responses before settling on:Thanks, but I'm not sure what my schedule looks like. I'll let you know.
Coward.
Another message, this one from my mother:Breakfast tomorrow? I'd like to see you before the board meeting. We need to discuss your presentation. Love you.
The board meeting. Right. My father had scheduled it for 10 AM today—"informal," he'd said, but nothing with Richard Sterling III was ever informal. This would be my official introduction as VP of Strategic Development.
My stomach churned, the coffee turning acidic.
The next message made me pause.
