Page 79 of Trust Fund Baby

“Sure.”

He ordered for us both without asking what I wanted—whipped cream for me, none for him—before pressing a steaming paper cup into my hands. I held it like a lifeline, letting the heat steep into my raw fingers.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, thumb swiping the screen before I could think better of it.

There was a text from my mother. Which meant only one thing—she needed something.

Mother:Don’t forget about the Christmas Eve party, sweetheart. You’ll be there this year. And bring a date. Everyone will expect to see you … on your best behavior.

My chest tightened, the same familiar squeeze it always did when her texts came with expectations hidden between the punctuation marks. A date. She wanted proof that I wasn’t the family disappointment who had traded a trust fund for a cramped apartment and a stack of bills. I needed to show up and play the part to not embarrass her.

“Are you okay?” Nate asked, sipping his drink.

“Yeah.” I forced a smile and tucked my phone back into my coat pocket. The words left my mouth before I could reel them in. “Would you want to come with me? To my family’s Christmas Eve party in Greenwich?”

His eyebrows lifted in mild surprise before his grin returned, polished and pleased. I hadn’t mentioned my upbringing, but anyone with a brain knew that if someone came from Greenwich, the odds were that they came from money. “Of course. Sounds fun. Black tie?”

“Always.” I tried to match his enthusiasm, but inside, my stomach twisted.

He was the perfect person to invite along with me, everything that my mother would expect from one of my dates—a well-off family, polite, knows the workings of higher society, and brings a pretty enough image for the family to make use of.

But the idea of forcing a smile and playing along made me hope that the liquor cabinet would be well-stocked that evening. I had only attended my family’s Christmas Eve parties sparingly over the past decade and never had I brought a date with me. Which was probably why my mother was putting her foot down this year. She didn’t want the women at the country club to speculate that I would end up a spinster with fifteen cats at the ripe age of twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight.

I let my mind imagine what it would be like if Sebastian were my date instead. The way he’d look in a tux, all sharp lines and green eyes that could strip me down to the bone without even trying. I remembered years of those parties—the quiet way he’d slip out to the terrace with me, sharing a cigarette we didn’t even inhale, laughing at the absurdity of the gilded room inside. Those were the only times I’d ever enjoyed the holiday parties my family threw.

And now, instead of that boy who would make me laugh about the smallest things to make the evening better, I had Nate. Smiling too wide, talking too much, sipping his hot chocolate without leaving room for silence. He was … fine. A good date. A safe choice.

So why did every second beside him feel like standing in a knock-off gallery when I’d already seen the original masterpiece?

Maybe that was because I could never have the original. I’d flown too close to the sun and now I was facing what reality would look like for myself. The safe choice. The one that wouldn’t break my heart into a million pieces. My very own Mr. Perfectly Fine. Trust Taylor to tell the story of my life through her lyrics for the millionth time.

Nate adjusted his scarf as we strolled further into the park, his voice carrying on about some large mansion in Connecticut he was interested in seeing and that maybe he might just venture into that market as well, seeing as my family was from there after all. The words skimmed the surface of my mind without sinking in, my thoughts looping back to my mother’s text.

On your best behavior.

I could already hear the champagne glasses clinking, the polite laughter, the way eyes would cut toward me and linger a beat too long, cataloging, comparing. They’d look at Nate and nod approvingly. Safe. Steady. Polished.

The words kept echoing in my mind.

I sipped my hot chocolate, sweet and cloying, wishing for something sharper, something real.

Sebastian would never fit into that mold. He’d crack it open just to see what fell out. He’d lean close at those parties, his lips brushing my ear with some wicked remark about the mayor’s toupee or the ostentatious flower arrangements that cost more than most people’s rent. He’d steal me away to the terrace, just like he did when we were kids. But instead of sharing an unlit cigarette, he’d press his hand into the small of my back as the cold stung our cheeks. Giving me warmth simply with his nearness. With him, I never felt on display. I felt … seen.

The ache of the fictional image pulled at me until I forced myself back to the present, where Nate was still going on about the market value of homes in Greenwich. He just wasn’t him.

I nodded at the right moments, smiled when I was supposed to. But the truth sat heavy in my chest. Even though I’d run far away from the life my family wanted for me, the universe had fulfilled the prophecy.

We turned down one of the quieter paths in the park. The trees stripped bare against the pale evening sky. The city lights glowed in the distance, blurred halos against the oncoming dark. Nate slowed beside me, his hand brushing against mine. It was deliberate, not accidental—he left it there, waiting.

I glanced down at the space between us; the way his gloved fingers tilted toward mine. A small part of me wanted to take it, to lean into the simplicity. To let myself believe that this could be enough.

But the part of me that remembered heat and recklessness, the part that remembered green eyes and the way my name sounded like worship when whispered against my skin—that part shrank back.

I shifted my cup, busying myself with another sip of hot chocolate. “Thanks for this evening,” I said, my voice a little too bright, a little too careful.

Nate smiled, clearly pleased. “Of course. You could come back to my place for a drink.” He angled closer, his stride slowing until we came to a stop beneath a lamppost that buzzed faintly above us. His gaze dipped toward my mouth, polite hesitation giving way to confidence. “If you want to, that is.”

My heart stuttered. This was the moment—one I knew was coming.