Page 11 of Trust Fund Baby

You think I was cocky back then, King? That was child’s play. You’ve got no idea what ten years can do for a man.

I snorted. Really snorted. Of course he would say that. And of course, I thought about how right he probably was.

The tattoos. His voice was deeper and sent a shiver down my spine. His face had lost every ounce of baby weight.

But he was right, some things never changed.

Especially the way he looked at me like I was still that girl who climbed out of her window to sneak off into the night with him, passing a bottle of alcohol and a few kisses between us.

I typed a quick reply to Hallie.

Roxie:I think I may skip out on tonight. I’m tired of gracing those Wall Street men with my presence when they don’t know the opportunity they have at their fingertips.

Roxie:But you’ve got this. I have a good feeling about tonight!

I hit send. Then I picked up my laptop and started typing.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

And what exactly have ten years done for you, Whittaker? Besides racking up a list of broken hearts across Manhattan. Still waiting for the part where I’m supposed to be impressed.

His reply came faster this time. I pictured him lounging in his luxurious Upper East Side penthouse, the subtle scent of scotch mingling with the leather of the chair I imagined he was sitting in, the sleeves of his expensive shirt rolled up to his elbows as he waited by his laptop. I could practically see the smug look on his face as my reply hit his inbox.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

You always were hard to impress, King.

But just so you know, none of them stood a chance. Not after the girl who once told me my trust fund made me soft and then dared me to jump off my parents’ yacht wearing a tux. (Still have the scar, by the way.)

I’d almost forgotten that night. It was the summer going into our junior year of high school, and we were spending it in the Hamptons, just like we had every year. The red glow of the bonfire on the Whittakers’ private beach flickered in the distance, while the soft rumble of the departing crowd, their laughter echoing faintly, died down. Every year, Sebastian’s parents invited everyone who was anyone over to celebrate the start of summer in the Hamptons.

Sebastian and I, desperate for a break, snuck onto his parents’ yacht—the salty air and gentle rocking motion were a welcome escape from the endless questions about college plans. For our parents and their “friends,” the status associated with an Ivy League education was everything. Generations of Whittakers had walked the grounds of Princeton and Sebastian was more than happy to follow in his family’s footsteps. My admission to Harvard was not merely about its status, but the last requirement for me to receive my trust fund.

A strained smile stretched across my face as I lied about intending to go to Harvard all night long, the words heavy and suffocating each time they left my lips. Harvard was a future set out for me by my grandfather long before I was even born. He was the man responsible for the trust fund of every King that came after him and the only stipulation he placed upon us all to achieve it was attending the Ivy League school he’d gone to.

The only problem was, the thought of Harvard filled me with a deep sense of dread, and admitting my actual plans would mean losing the trust fund.

Maybe that was why I’d challenged Sebastian to jump off the bow of the yacht fully clothed. I wanted to blow off some steam, and he knew me better than even my family did.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

And those loafers! I told you they were a liability. You insisted they were “vintage Hermes” and “nautical enough.” And I still say you only jumped to prove me wrong. You always were a showoff.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]