Would she not know what to say?
Maybe.
But still feels like a stretch.
Tori always knows what to say.
More likely, I hurt her when I shut her out.
“I don’t want you to spiral again, Bennett. Tonight, I’d like you to reach out to someone. Weston, Callum. Go for a walk, playCall of Duty.”
I nod. I can do that.
“Once you’re calm, if you still want to reach out to Tori, tell her the truth. Not ‘I’m sorry.’ But what actually happened for you that night.”
I swallow hard.
“Explain why you shut down. What you were afraid of. Then let her decide what she wants to do with that.”
I’m not sure I can do that. Lay everything out there.
Raw.
Real.
But if anyone’s worth the risk, it’s Tori.
I’m not apologizing this time.
This time, I’m telling her the truth.
CHAPTER 37
TORI
My father barrages me with so many texts, I put my phone on Do Not Disturb. I can’t handle his constant interruptions, another reminder of everything that’s gone wrong since I’ve been back in Manhattan.
I already lost Bennett.
Now I have to do what I can to stabilize the fund.
Foregoing breakfast and running on caffeine, I spend the morning pulling a full risk snapshot, identifying higher-risk positions, running quick stress tests. Then I de-risk, reducing my gross and tightening alerts.
The Prince fund needs to show control, not panic.
I’ve got this.
Next, I draft the one-page LP script listing current performance drivers, changes, why risk is contained, and the things I’ll be watching closely.
Finally, I fire off a quick email to Lucas, attaching the one-pager he requested.
For most of the investors, that should be enough.
By lunchtime, I’ve still eaten nothing. But I have talked to the COO and he’s sending me a list of the top ten LPs prioritized by redemption risk. I also have blocks of calls set up — one for whales, the other for connectors. Talking points are outlined and I’m ready to field any question that comes my way. I draft an internal memo, detailing messaging rules: all inquiries about the fund funnel to me and IR. No off-the-record comments.
With all of this in place, the damage should stay contained.
I take a quick stretch break, rolling my shoulders and wrists. Then I make another espresso, breaking my 2 PM rule — I need it after the awful night of sleep. I catch my reflection in the glistening silver of the coffee machine and grimace. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes, messy hair, sallow skin. No Facetime calls today, that’s for sure.
