Z:Your father wants to see you at 8 AM. His office. Don't be late—he's already in a mood.
Z. My father's executive assistant, my sort-of friend, and the guy who had been reporting on me the whole time.
I typed back:Tell him I'll be there.
Z:Between you and me? He's been talking about your "position" all week. The VP thing is already a done deal in his mind. Just... be prepared.
Me:Thanks for the warning.
Z:Yeah. Look, Beau... whatever you're thinking about doing, just remember he holds all the cards. The accounts, the trust, everything. Don't make any moves without a plan. Also I'm still sorry for deceiving you.
I stared at that message for a long time. Z knew. Of course he knew—he'd probably been in the room when my father structured the whole manipulation.
Fuck that.
I grabbed my laptop, settling onto the couch—too firm, designer-selected for aesthetics over comfort—and started researching. Family lawyers. Trust dissolution specialists. Anyone who could tell me how to extract myself from my father's financial stranglehold.
***
By 7 AM, I had three attorneys on conference call, all of them specializing in family wealth management and trust dissolution.
"Mr. Sterling," the lead attorney—Margaret Chen, highly recommended, shark-sharp reputation—said carefully, "what you're asking for is complicated. Your trust fund, the assets tied to Sterling Industries, the family accounts—they're structured specifically to prevent this kind of extraction. Your father's lawyers are very, very good."
"I understand. But there must be a way." I leaned forward, elbows on knees, exhaustion making me blunt. "What's actually mine? What did I earn, separate from my father's control?"
Silence on the line, broken only by the sound of papers rustling. Then Margaret's voice, gentler now, "Very little, I'm afraid. The penthouse is technically owned by Sterling Industries—corporate housing for executives. Your primary trust doesn't vest until you're thirty-five, or upon meeting certain employment conditions, which your father controls as CEO. The secondary accounts are discretionary, and according to my research, he froze them approximately four months ago."
"What about income? Salary from previous work?"
"Did you work for Sterling Industries in any capacity?"
"Yes. Summers during college. Two years after graduation in business development."
"Then that income was deposited into company-managed accounts, which..." She trailed off, the answer obvious.
I laughed, bitter and sharp. "So I'm twenty-four years old, and I own nothing. Not the penthouse, not my car, not even my own bank account. Everything is his."
"Not nothing," Margaret corrected firmly. "You have personal assets—gifts from relatives outside direct family control, some investments made in your name through channels your father doesn't oversee, a small inheritance from your maternal grandmother. I'd estimate, conservatively, around $200,000 in fully liquid assets you can access without his approval."
Two hundred thousand dollars. It sounded like a fortune—it was a fortune to most people, more than Pops probably saw in three years of ranching. But it also wasn't billions. Wasn't the trust fund I'd grown up assuming would catch me if I fell. It was just... enough to start over. If I was careful.
"How fast can I access it?"
"Forty-eight hours, if you're willing to move aggressively and accept some penalties on early withdrawals. Seventy-two if you want to be more strategic about tax implications."
"Do it. Forty-eight hours. Set up a new account at a different institution—not anywhere Sterling Industries does business. Transfer everything I legally own." The decision crystallized, sharp and clear. "And Margaret? I need this airtight. My father will fight me on every dollar."
"Understood." A pause. "May I ask what prompted this? It's highly unusual for someone in your position to willingly divest from family wealth."
I looked out the window at Dallas, at the life I'd been expected to lead, the cage I'd been raised in without realizing it had bars. "I'm choosing a different position. A different life."
"Well." She sounded almost impressed. "That takes courage. We'll get started immediately. I'll need signatures on several documents—I can have a courier bring them to you within the hour."
We spent the next hour on logistics—account numbers, asset transfers, setting up a financial structure that didn't rely on Sterling Industries' infrastructure or my father's approval. By 8:15 AM, I was exhausted, caffeinated beyond reason, and strangely, impossibly exhilarated.
My phone buzzed.
Z: Your dad's pissed. You're 15 minutes late. Where are you?
