Page 91 of Trust Fund Baby

Hallie was already crouched down to greet them, her energy practically radiating as she handed the little ones their first bags of groceries. James hovered nearby, guiding the family through the check-in process with his usual calm, measured demeanor.

“Mr. Sebastian!” The young girl I’d met with her brother and mother came running up to me, the widest grin on her little face. “We were first in line, just like you said. There are so many people out there. Do you think everyone will get something to eat?”

I bent down so I was at her eye level, her mittened hands clutching the strap of her grocery bag like it was a late Christmas present. “Everyone will get something,” I told her, steady, certain. “That’s the whole point. No one will leave with empty tummies.”

Her grin widened, and for a second, I swore my heart was going to clench so tightly that it might just cease to beat again.

Behind her, her brother lingered, shy and watchful, but his shoulders weren’t so tense as the first time I’d met him. Their mother gave me a nod, her eyes rimmed red but full of something that filled me with pride—hope. Seeing those little seeds being planted landed like a punch in my chest.

I stood, running a hand over the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. But it clung to me, heavier than any deal I’d ever closed on the top floor of Whittaker Holdings tower. It nearly consumed me how I’d somehow missed out on this kind of fulfillment until now.

“Sebastian.”

The sound of my name, spoken in that low, commanding voice, froze me where I stood. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. There was no way. No way would he ever set foot here.

But when I turned, there he was. My father, with a perfectly pressed wool coat draped over his broad shoulders, a cashmere scarf wound neatly around his neck. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of the boardroom and into a place he had no business being.

I blinked. “Dad?”

His gaze swept over the room, taking in the stocked shelves, the bustling volunteers, the line of families stretching out the glass doors. For once, his sharp eyes didn’t carry that usual undercurrent of judgment. Instead, he looked almost studious. Measuring. And when he finally looked back at me, there was something startling in his expression.

Approval.

“This is impressive,” he said simply, his tone clipped but not cold. If anything, the lack of coldness in his voice was the most alarming. “Very impressive.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do with that. My father didn’t hand out compliments. He rationed them like diamonds instead. They were rare and costly. Never given freely.

“You’ve built something sustainable here,” he continued, stepping closer. “If you keep this up, prove it isn’t a passing whim, your time away from Whittaker Holdings will end.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The underlying meaning was clear. I was to come back, resume my place in the company now that I’d proven myself enough to return to the fold.

There was a time not even a few months ago when that was all I wanted.

But I didn’t want that. Not anymore.

“I don’t think you understand,” I said slowly, straightening my shoulders. “I don’t want to come back.”

My father’s head tilted, his brows lifting ever so slightly in surprise. It wasn’t often someone told him no and lived to walk away afterward.

“This,” I gestured around the room, to the kitchen, the families, the laughter of children threading through the air, “this is what I want. Not fashion. Not commodities. Not another merger or acquisition. I want the company to expand into something that changes lives. We could do more than run a food bank. We could create an entire arm of the company dedicated to philanthropy. Charitable outreach on a global scale. Real investments in people, not just products.”

For a long moment, he just stared at me, his face unreadable. And then slowly his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile.

“You’ve thought this through, it seems.”

“I have,” I said firmly. “More than I ever thought I would. And I would love to head it all.”

Another long silence stretched between us. I half-expected him to dismiss me, to laugh at the idea, to cut me down with a well-placed remark that would remind me who held the power.

Instead, he adjusted his scarf, his sharp gaze flicking back around the room.

“Bring me the plans,” he said finally. “Something concrete. I’ll look them over.”

My pulse hammered. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no.

And for my father, that was as close to an open door as anyone ever got.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the street in dusky pink and orange, the food bank had closed its doors. But inside, it was far from quiet. The staff made the shift almost seamlessly: they brought out tables, spread linens, and lit candles. The smell of simmering tomato sauce now mixed with so many more delicious smells.