Page 50 of Trust Fund Baby

It rang once. Twice.

“Sebastian,” my father’s voice snapped into my ear. “Did you get my message?”

“Yeah,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair in hopes I could make it look halfway presentable after the night I’d had. There was very little chance I would make it back to my apartment in time for a shower. “I saw it.”

“Well?” he demanded. “You’ll be on time, won’t you?”

“I’m on my way.”

A brief pause and then, “Your mother is going to make an appearance this time. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

“I could say the same to you,” I said under my breath without thinking.

“What was that?” he snapped back.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shifting gears and accelerating down the back road that would take me to the highway. The sun was just beginning to rise behind me, and for a split second, I let myself enjoy the memory of yesterday. Before I had to leave. Before the reminder that no matter how far I ran, I was always one ring away from being dragged back by my father. With no control over my own life. Unable to enjoy the things and the people around me.

“Good,” my father said. “Because we have bigger issues than your attitude.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. “What now?”

“Spiria,” he said, the word coming out cold. “They’re preparing to walk.”

I blinked, tightening my grip on the wheel. Spiria was my newest client. They were a small designer in Milan that I’d found and managed to work out a deal that would have Whittaker Holdings acquire them. It wasn’t a flashy closing or big number like some of my other deals, but they were an important cog in my father’s plans. They were one of the newest upcoming couture designers that he had his eye on, identifying them as a potentially dangerous threat if left to their own devices.

Because that was what Whittaker Holdings did. It sucked up new talent like a vacuum, only to cut costs and budget all in the effort of reducing risk and padding the bottom dollar. It was a capitalist machine at its finest. I would be lying if I said the entire purpose of the company didn’t bother me. But what was I to do about it?

“What are you talking about? The deal was locked in. Their legal signed off last week.”

“Apparently, your team in Milan fumbled the follow-up call. They raised concerns about due diligence and financial transparency. Spiria’s team is panicking. We’ll lose them by Friday if you don’t fix it.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from reminding him that the legal and financial teams in Milan were not “my” team. Technically, they were his. All I had to do was hand the deal off to them, and they handled the rest. But there was no chance I was going to get that across to my father.

“Jesus,” I muttered, leaning my head back against the headrest. “What the hell even happened on that call? It was a done deal.”

“I have no fucking clue, Sebastian. But you didn’t get ahead of it. So this is your mess to clean up.”

Of course. Classic. In his mind, if something went wrong, it had to be my fault. Never anyone else’s or the company’s. Never the old-school legal team he refused to revamp and claimed could handle anything. And certainly not his.

He was testing me. Every day. Every hour. Like I hadn’t earned my place with the company. And I was questioning whether I ever would.

“I’ll give the head designer a call,” I said, jaw clenched. “If I need to, I can schedule a call and smooth things over.”

“You’ll do more than that,” he snapped. “You’ll fix this personally. If this deal falls through, it’s not just egg on your face. It’s a black mark on the entire company.”

I stared at the road ahead, fighting the urge to roll my eyes as the city skyline came into view. “It won’t fall through.”

“It better not,” he said. “Because if it does, you can consider this your last shot.”

I went still. Suddenly every ounce of restraint left my body. My mouth was moving before I could think better of the words slipping past my lips. Because I was tired of the threats and accusations, with no end in sight.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” my father said, voice cool as ice, “you’ve had enough opportunities to prove you’re actually worthy of your position in this company. You’re not some wide-eyed intern anymore trying to impress me with your flair and instincts. You want a seat at the table? You want the business that’s been built for generations waiting for you to inherit it?” He paused. “Then prove it. You save this deal, or you’re out.”

“You said the same thing about closing the Zurich investors,” I snapped back. “You told me to close the deal weeks ago or I lose my job. I did that. I proved to you I’m serious. Now you’re throwing another ultimatum at me. When’s it going to end, Dad?”

“When you stop needing ultimatums to act like a Whittaker,” he said, voice sharp enough to slice skin. “You want to be treated like an equal? Earn it. Until then, I’ll keep reminding you what’s at stake.”