Page 81 of Trust Fund Baby

I grunted, adjusting my bowtie again. This house still made me restless. Every corner whispered with memories I’d rather not revisit tonight—nights sneaking through hedges, ducking beneath windows, and tossing rocks at Roxie King’s balcony until she climbed out and down the trellis, hair spilling down like I’d conjured her from a dream. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be here. She hated this kind of thing even more than me. Plus, if she was dating again, there was a high chance she was with her new boyfriend tonight. If she had one. I clenched my fists unconsciously and tried to push the idea from my mind.

The car slowed to a stop, and the driver came round to open the door. My father was out first, perfectly composed as always, every inch the man people wanted to do business with. I climbed out behind him, tugging my jacket straight, trying to shake off the sudden itch under my skin.

The King mansion glittered in the night, every window lit, wreaths and garlands strung across the massive stone archway. Laughter and the faint notes of that very string quartet my father mentioned drifted through the air. People spilled in through the double doors, tuxedos and gowns glimmering in the warm glow of far too many candles. I was certain the local fire department would deem this gathering a fire hazard, but to be honest, the fire chief was most likely here.

I pasted on the Whittaker smile, the one that said I belonged here even when every cell in me wanted to bolt. Oh, how things have changed. I once used to live for events like this. Where the alcohol was endless and every eligible woman with a last name worth mentioning was batting her eyelashes in my direction, waiting for the chance to become a story whispered about over champagne the next day.

Now? The glinting crystal and murmured laughter scraped across my nerves. The polished marble floors felt more like a stage than a home, the chandeliers casting a spotlight I didn’t want. I wasn’t that man anymore. Or at least, I was trying not to be. I understood why Roxie had run as fast as she could from this place.

Inside, the King mansion was all opulence. Towering ceilings dressed in garlands and ribbons; the scent of pine and cinnamon baked into every corner. A tree soared in the center of the room, glittering with ornaments collected from around the world. Guests floated around it, glasses in hand, perfectly tailored laughter filling the space like background music to the quartet in the corner.

My father immediately set to work, his hand clapping on the backs of old colleagues, every conversation perfectly executed with one purpose in mind—business. He moved through the crowd like he owned it. I followed a step behind, shaking hands when introduced, answering the inevitable questions about my latest project.

Yes, the building being renovated is on Eighth Avenue.

Yes, it will be the East Side Food Bank.

Yes, it will make a huge impact for these people.

Yes, anyone attached to it will receive a huge reputation boost in the eyes of the public.

All the while, I kept my breathing even, ignoring the memories that clung to these walls. The Kings had hosted this Christmas Eve party every year since I could remember. I knew this house almost as well as my own.

I should have known better than to tempt fate by coming back.

For a moment, I thought I saw Roxie in a deep-green velvet dress across the ballroom, smiling stiffly at the people who had drawn her into a conversation. But that would be ridiculous, because Roxie wouldn’t be caught dead attending another King Christmas Eve party.

But then the Roxie I thought I’d conjured up slipped back into view and her eyes found mine. The way surprise slowly unfolded across her face made me realize maybe she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. It was like my body recognized her before my eyes did—every muscle stiffening, my pulse kicking into a sprint.

Roxie King was standing across the room in front of that monstrous Christmas tree, dressed in emerald green that clung to her like sin. Her hair shone like strands of gold in the glow of a thousand lights. Crimson lips sent a jolt of heat through my entire being. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

But then I saw who was standing next to her, his arm around her back. Nate DeMarco.

What in the absolute fuck?

The sight of him touching her made my jaw clench. She looked away from me quickly as he leaned in, said something into her ear, and she laughed. It was small, polite, but it was enough to set my blood boiling. When James had told me that Roxie was dating again, the last person I had expected it to be was Nate DeMarco.

Nate. Of all people. And I had been the one to introduce her to him.

I could barely imagine a crueler twist of fate.

The room seemed to narrow, the noise dulling to a low hum as my past and present collided in front of me. Nate was the golden boy who had always been perfect. And Roxie, my Roxie, was smiling at his words, wearing that dress, the one that clung to her in all the right places, which she’d picked out to wear to be his date.

I forced myself to inhale, the polished smile still glued to my face as my father steered me toward another group of potential donors. My hands itched for a drink, but I clenched them at my sides. Nate DeMarco would not be the reason that I tasted my first drop of alcohol in months.

I’d come here to secure investment, to prove that the food bank could stand on its own. But as my gaze slid back across the room, locking onto Roxie again, I realized that was going to be nearly impossible with a distraction like her circling the room.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My father was mid-sentence with a hedge fund manager, but my chest was tightening by the second. Roxie’s laugh drifted through the air, slicing straight through me, and I needed space. Air. Distance. Anything.

I murmured something about stepping out for a moment and started weaving my way through the crowd, heading for the nearest exit without drawing too much attention.

That’s when I nearly collided with someone.

“Kirsten,” I breathed, catching myself before spilling the champagne flute she was clutching. Roxie’s grandmother was assessing me with the same blue eyes that Roxie had. It was almost disarming how strikingly similar they were.

“Sebastian Whittaker,” she said, her voice cool but not unkind, clipped in a way that carried more weight than outright affection. She looked the same from when I was a kid—immaculately coiffed hair, a string of pearls at her throat, a winter-white gown that was expertly curated.

“I thought I’d recognized you from across the room,” she added, lips curving just slightly. “I must admit, I didn’t expect you here tonight.”