I looked at the message, then at the suit hanging in my closet—Tom Ford, tailored perfectly, the armor I'd worn to a hundred boardrooms. My father was waiting. Expected me pressed and polished and ready to fall in line.
Instead, I texted back:Tell him I'll be at the board meeting at 10. Not before.
Z:Beau. he's going to lose his shit.
Me: Then let him.
I silenced my phone and went back to signing documents.
***
The dealership was in North Dallas, one of those places that sold trucks to ranchers with oil money and CEOs with weekend cowboy fantasies. I walked in at 9 AM wearing yesterday's jeans and a t-shirt, looking like I'd slept in my truck—which I kind of had, emotionally—and asked to see their new models.
The salesman—Craig, according to his name tag—perked up immediately, probably smelling commission. "Absolutely, sir! What are you looking for? Work truck or luxury package?"
"Work truck. Four-wheel drive, extended cab, good towing capacity. Something that can handle rough terrain and won't quit on me."
"Planning to do some ranching?" Craig asked with that salesman enthusiasm that bordered on manic.
"Something like that. Actually, yeah. Exactly that."
He showed me a beauty—Ford F-250, midnight blue with a silver trim, barely 5,000 miles on it. It smelled like new leather and possibility, nothing like the sleek European sedan gathering dust in my penthouse garage. This was a truck meant for dirt roads and hay bales and mornings that started before dawn because cattle didn't care about your sleep schedule.
"I'll take it," I said.
Craig blinked. "Don't you want to test drive it? Check the—"
"I'll take it. Today. How fast can you process the paperwork?"
His eyes widened. "Well, if you're paying cash—"
"I am. Well, cashier's check. Same difference."
"Then... an hour? Maybe less if I can get my manager to expedite."
"Do it."
While Craig scrambled to get things moving, my phone started ringing. My father. I silenced it. It rang again immediately—his office line. Then a text from
Z:He knows you're not coming. He's calling an emergency meeting with legal. Beau, whatever you're doing, STOP. Call me.
I turned off my phone entirely.
By 9:52 AM, I was signing the final papers, transferring funds that were mine —not my father's, not Sterling Industries', but money I'd earned and owned free and clear, even if it was a fraction of what I'd grown up thinking I had. It felt like theft and liberation in equal measure.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr..." Craig glanced at the paperwork, his smile faltering slightly. "Sterling? As in... Sterling Industries?"
"Yeah." I grabbed the keys, already moving toward the door. "But just Beau is fine."
"Right. Well, uh, enjoy the truck!"
I climbed into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors, and sat there for a moment breathing in the newness of it. This truck was mine. Paid for with my own money, not my father's approval or Sterling capital. It was the first thing I'd truly owned in my entire adult life.
I checked my watch: 9:58 AM.
The board meeting was starting in two minutes, twenty blocks away.
I started the engine and drove toward it, not away.
