Page 53 of Trust Fund Baby

Hallie, curled up on my bed scrolling through her phone, barely looked up. “Because your boss is a vulture in a Tom Ford suit.”

“Correction,” I said, grabbing my bag. “A vulture in an off-the-rack blazer who still thinks barking orders makes him a leader.”

Speak of the devil.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Martin Hayward. Head gallerist. Gatekeeper. Glamor-obsessed egomaniac with a taste for overpriced scented candles and underpaid employees.

I hesitated. Chances were that when I picked up that phone, Martin would snap off some random instruction that would only make my day that much harder before tonight’s show. Hallie caught the name on the screen and sat up straighter.

“Are you going to answer that?”

I sighed and tapped the screen. “Roxie King,” I said, already bracing.

“You’d better not be late,” Martin barked. No hello. No pleasantries. “I don’t care if your shoes are on fire, I need you here before the collectors start swarming. And for the love of God, don’t wear that leather jacket. It’s tacky and makes you look like a broke wannabe artist.”

I had to bite back from telling him I was a broke wannabe artist, but it didn’t matter anyway. Because the call ended before I could even get a single word out.

Hallie blinked. “What a ray of sunshine! He’s almost more frightening than Anthea.”

I dropped my phone into my bag like it had burned me. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to walk out on him and force him to do it all on his own.”

Hallie stood and crossed the room, her tone softer. “Why don’t we do it, Rox? Seriously. You and me. We start our own company, review the best restaurants around the city. You photograph and I write the articles. We already have connections. You’ve got the eye. I’ve got a bit of a following already with my social media page.”

“You also have a column to write and a dream job dangling just on the other side of that.”

She shrugged as if the idea of walking away from Sophisticate was just that easy. “Doesn’t mean I can’t build something with you instead. I’m serious.”

I looked at her, surprised by how badly I wanted to say yes. Yet, despite all that, I was still burdened by bills. And dreams, unfortunately, didn’t cover them.

So that would have to wait.

“We will someday, Hallie,” I told her, crossing the room to sit down on the corner of my bed next to her. “Someday.”

She gave me a soft smile, the kind that made my chest ache a little. Not from sadness—just from the sheer weight of love I felt for her. My best friend. My ride or die. The person who had picked me up more times than I could count, usually with a bottle of wine and zero judgment in her eyes. She believed in me even when I didn’t.

“Fine,” Hallie said, nudging her shoulders against mine. “But when Martin inevitably combusts from all that rage and caffeine, I want you to know I already have our business cards picked out.”

“Oh, yeah?” I laughed. “Let me guess … minimalist white background with a pop of desert red and burnt orange?”

“Obviously. We’re not amateurs.”

She was still talking as I stood, slipping on my heels and trying not to wince at the blister forming with every step. One more night. Just get through this evening, and maybe, if the gallery gods were merciful, I’d sell enough to quit. Maybe someone important would stop in the gallery and see me as more than just the girl arranging tiny sandwiches or adjusting lighting or giving some artist’s ego a boost before their big debut.

“I should go.” I grabbed my leather jacket out of spite. Tacky or not, it was my signature. “Wish me luck.”

Hallie blew me a kiss and flopped dramatically back on the bed. “Break a leg. Or at least don’t murder anyone before the champagne runs out. You deserve to have a fun night.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes as I closed the door behind me. It didn’t take a genius to pick up the hidden meaning behind her words. I’d been down more days than up over the past week since Memorial Day. Though the city basked in sunshine, with Central Park’s vibrant picnics and street-side restaurant seating, my mood was a stark contrast. All because of one man that I would absolutely love to strangle the next time I saw him, if I ever did again.

The gallery was already buzzing when I stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of Martin’s stupid candles, expensive champagne, and self-importance. Hired staff bustled around the gallery, making sure that all the art was properly labeled and hung where it was supposed to go or preparing the food and drinks for the evening. My heels clicked against the polished concrete, echoing louder than I wanted them to as I made my way to the back room. The walls gleamed with the latest curated collection, which was full of sleek, abstract canvases that had taken me months to coordinate for tonight’s show.

Martin was holding court near the champagne tower with some of the staff, most of whom looked absolutely petrified. He was mid-pep-talk but judging by the rigid spines and forced nods of the workers, it was more likely a public execution in progress.

“—and remember, we are not a craft fair. If I see one more poorly lit social media story of the art tonight, I will personally throw the offending phone into the Hudson.”

He spotted me over the rim of his glasses and his gaze flicked instantly to my jacket.

“You didn’t.” His voice dropped into a deadly register before he let out a disapproving sigh. “You did.”