Page 51 of Trust Fund Baby

“And what is at stake?” I bit out. “The job I’ve already been doing for three years? The equity I’ve earned with every successful pitch and closed acquisition while you sit back and bark orders from your goddamn house in Connecticut like it makes you some kind of genius?”

Silence.

I could practically feel him bristling on the other end.

“You’re emotional,” he said finally, like that was the worst imaginable sin I could commit. “That’s your problem. Always has been.”

No. My problem was that I gave a damn. About more than numbers and legacy and image and buying up everything in sight. I cared about people. The people behind these companies we were taking. About the creative vision we crushed under our corporate thumb. About the woman I’d just left asleep on a couch in the Hamptons.

My grip tightened on the wheel until my knuckles went white. “Is that all?”

“For now,” he said. “But don’t be late to breakfast. And shave, for God’s sake. Your mother deserves that.”

But before I could snap back about what he knew was best for my mother, because he’d never put her first a day in his life, the line went dead.

I let out a long breath and crept over the bridge into Manhattan, the skyline sharpening against the early morning haze like teeth. The streets were still half-asleep, vendors unfolding carts and cracking open crates of croissants and oranges, the scent of bagels drifting from delis already bustling with regulars. A taxi blared its horn at a biker coasting through a red light like it was nothing. A woman in stilettos was crying on a bench outside a club, her mascara running down one cheek while she yelled into her phone about some guy named Tyler.

This city was never quiet. Not even at half past six in the morning on a holiday Monday. It breathed and buzzed and rattled in its rhythm. And as much as I hated what waited for me—white tablecloths and silver spoons and sharp-edged conversations with my father—there was something about slipping back into Manhattan that grounded me.

I didn’t bother going to my apartment. There wasn’t time, and even if there was, I wasn’t in the mood to walk into my place alone and be reminded of who I’d left behind.

Instead, I parked outside the restaurant in Tribeca and pulled the sun visor down, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, the collar of my shirt still wrinkled. I rolled my sleeves and tried smoothing things out with the heel of my hand. It was a losing battle.

I looked exactly how I felt—like someone who’d left a good thing behind to chase something hollow just because my father said so.

Breakfast went exactly as I expected. The space between my parents was full of quiet, stiff tension. My father wore his usual mask of smug confidence. My mother offered the occasional smile like she was holding her breath the whole time. The only time she spoke was to me to ask how my weekend was and how work was going. The second I mentioned work, my father scoffed at every other word I said back to her. But I endured it, silently sipping coffee and trying to put on the good son act.

By the time I made it back to my place later that night, after swinging by the office to get some work done, the weight of the day hung on me. I tossed my bag on the floor, cracked open the window for air, and sat at my desk, laptop in front of me. But I couldn’t bring myself to do any work. My mind immediately went to Roxie, wondering if she was back in the city yet. Wondering if she’d thought about me at all.

Hell, I’d thought about her every other second all day. The entirety of last night was imprinted on my brain.

The only problem was I realized I hadn’t gotten her number over the weekend.

We had exchanged nothing, not even a promise to talk again. I’d just left her. No note. No explanation. No guarantee I’d be back.

I hissed out a long breath.

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Seb,” I murmured to myself.

I leaned forward and opened my laptop to type out a message; the only way I had to contact her.

Subject: Made it back

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Hey,

Just checking in. I made it back to the city. Hope you did too. Sorry for how I left this morning. I didn’t want to wake you. Had to get back for a breakfast with my parents. You know how they get.

There’s lots I still want to say.

Sebastian xx

I hit send and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, debating whether to send a follow-up and ask her to get dinner tomorrow. But then my screen flashed.

From: Mail Delivery Subsystem