“Austin.”
I hadn’t spoken to my brother in forever, not since he had his spectacular falling out with Dad and cut himself off from the family entirely. He got pissed at Dad and walked away from all of us.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Hudson, you know Austin wants nothing to do with any of us. He made that crystal clear when he left.”
“Which is exactly why you need to talk to him,” Hudson said, standing up from the couch. “Because if you’re planning to challenge Dad on this Northwood deal, you need to understand what you’re up against. And Austin is the only one of us who’s ever stood up to Armand Bancroft and lived to tell about it.”
He headed toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. “Good luck, dude.”
After he left, I stood alone in my apartment, surrounded by the kind of luxury that most people could only dream of, feeling poorer than I’d ever felt in my life.
Nobody knew the full story about what happened between our father and Austin. Dad refused to talk about it, and Hudson had only been there for the tail end of the explosion. AllI knew was that Austin had done something Dad considered unforgivable.
But maybe that was exactly what I needed to understand.
Against my better judgment, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Austin’s number. I’d kept it all this time, though I couldn’t say why. Some misguided hope that maybe someday we’d find our way back to being brothers instead of strangers with the same last name.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. Then Austin’s voicemail kicked in. I heard that familiar voice that was confident to the point of cockiness, with just enough charm to make you forgive him for it. It was kind of a thing in the Bancroft family.
Dammit, we really are rich pricks.
“You’ve reached Austin Bancroft. I’m probably off somewhere having more fun than you are. Leave a message if you think it’s important enough to interrupt my good time.”
The beep sounded, and I found myself speechless. What could I possibly say?
I hung up without saying anything.
The silence in my apartment felt deafening. I walked to the windows and stared out at the city below. I could see some Christmas lights twinkle in windows and doorways across Manhattan. I felt disconnected from any of that warmth.
The city looked beautiful from this height, but it was a cold beauty. All surface, no soul. No one here knew each other. No one made sure their neighbor got home after a drunken tirade at a Christmas party. No one saved you from a ditch without getting something in return.
I found myself thinking about Northwood. The lodge. The way Sylvie’s apartment had felt like a real home, lived in and loved, every mismatched piece of furniture telling a story about the person who’d chosen it.
I thought about the night she’d taken me outside to look at the sky. I turned my head and tried to see the stars. The light pollution here made it impossible to see more than a handful of stars, even on the clearest nights.
What was Sylvie doing right now? She was probably at the lodge with her family talking shit about me.
Or was she thinking about me at all?
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be the subject of conversation or want them to forget me altogether. Did she hate me? She had every right to. I’d lied to her, used her, made her look like a fool in front of her father. I’d taken her trust and twisted it into something ugly and manipulative.
But even if she did hate me, did it matter anymore?
The answer surprised me with its clarity. Yes. It mattered more than anything else. I didn’t want her to hate me. I didn’t want any of them to hate me. I truly respected them. They would never believe me if I told them I liked them. That I admired what they had built. They had something truly special, and it wasn’t just the property. It was the family unit.
I wanted to apologize and make them believe it.
Not because I thought I could fix what I’d broken. Not because I thought she’d ever forgive me or look at me the way she had before everything went sideways. But because she’d shown me something I’d never seen before.
Sylvie Winters cared about people. Really cared, in a way that made her willing to fight for them even when the odds were impossible. She found joy in simple things. Sylvie belonged to that land. It was her heart and soul.
I had never belonged anywhere. Not really. I’d spent my whole life trying to earn a place at tables where I was already supposed to have a seat, trying to prove myself worthy of a name I’d been born with. My life had been spent trying to become someone my father might actually be proud of.
And where had it gotten me? Standing alone in a hundred-million-dollar apartment staring at a city full of strangers and wondering if I’d ever felt genuinely happy a single day in my life.
The realization was both crushing and liberating. Crushing because it meant acknowledging how empty my life had become. Liberating because it meant I could choose to change it.
I pulled out my phone again and pulled up Austin’s number. This time, when the voicemail picked up, I didn’t hang up.
