His words echo exactly what Alistair just said.You had your fun. You played doctor.
And because I am hurt, and because I am scared he’s right, I lash out. I lean into the lie.
“Maybe it was a show,” I snap. “Maybe I proved my point. I showed Max I could do it. I showed my father I have grit. Why should I keep suffering just to prove something I’ve already won?”
Luke recoils. It’s a physical flinch, like I slapped him.
“Won?” Luke whispers. “You think this is a game? You think the patients downstairs are pieces on a board?”
“It’s all a game, Luke!” I yell, waving the folder. “The hospital. The Board. The politics. It’s all just leverage! And I’m finally in a position to win! Why shouldn't I take the golden parachute? Why should I stay down here and drown just because you have a martyr complex?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to recall them.
Luke’s face shuts down. The warmth vanishes. The wall goes up.
“I thought you were different,” Luke says quietly. “I really did. I thought you were… real.”
“I am real!”
“No,” Luke shakes his head. “You’re just a tourist. And I think your visa just expired.”
He drops the extra coffee into the trash can next to him. It lands with a heavythud.
“Enjoy the boardroom, York. I have real work to do.”
He turns around and walks away. He walks toward the service elevator, back down to the noise and theblood and the fight.
I stand there, alone in the silent, carpeted hallway.
I look at the folder. I look at the trash can.
I proved my point to my father. I protected my pride.
And it only cost me the only thing I actually loved.
Chapter 15
Withdrawal
PRESTON
Thursday (Three Days Post-Breakup)
The view from the top of the world is spectacular. It is also incredibly boring.
I am sitting in a temporary office on the 40th floor of the York Foundation building. The carpet is plush enough to lose a small dog in. The desk is made of glass and pretension. The air conditioning is set to a crisp, unfeeling sixty-eight degrees.
I am wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. My hair is perfect. My tie is a Windsor knot that I tied myself, without trembling.
I look like a success story. I feel like an autopsy.
“Preston,” Alistair’s voice booms from the doorway. “We need to review the quarterly projections for the endowment. I’m thinking of shifting assets from tech into… what are those things? Legumes?”
“Futures, Father,” I say, not looking up from the spreadsheet I am pretending to read. “Soybean futures.”
“Right. Beans. Very salt-of-the-earth. I like it.” Alistair strolls in, looking delighted. He is wearing the smile of a man who just won a very long, very expensive bet. “You know, Vane called me yesterday. He’s furious about the stock drop. He threatened to sue, and I told him to call the Pope. God, it feels good to win.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
