Page 14 of Trust Fund Baby

“You’re late,” came a voice from the hallway. My brother, Winn, appeared in the doorway, tie already loosened and shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. Even outside the office, he stayed in uniform, just in case he suddenly had business to attend to. His grin was half-amused, half-exasperated. “I thought for sure you wouldn’t show up today.”

“You say that every time,” I replied, reaching out to wrap my older brother in a hug. “And as tempting as it was to not come here, I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like that.”

He snorted. “Appreciate the sacrifice, as always. I already had to listen to Dad’s rundown of the probate litigation case he’s definitely still mad about losing in ’98.”

“That’s what you get for joining the family firm,” I said, stepping back. “You volunteered as tribute.”

Winn rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure I’d say I volunteered.”

We rounded the corner into the formal living room, where my mother was rearranging a vase with her signature white hydrangeas, and my father was halfway into his glass of Pappy Van Winkle, eyes flickering between us and his phone screen.

“Roxie, sweetheart,” my mother said, straightening and offering me a quick air kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely. Do you think the hydrangeas look flat this week? Maybe I should’ve gone with roses instead.”

“You said that last week,” I replied as I accepted the glass of wine my grandmother offered me.

“Because it was true then, too,” she muttered, tugging at a petal like it personally offended her.

My father looked up and gave me a nod. “Glad you made it.”

Glad I made it … as if I had a choice.

The five of us were barely settled into our respective seats at the dining table when the man himself entered—the patriarch, the reason behind my severed trust fund and very complicated issues with authority. Franklin King.

“Roxanne.” His voice, deep and clipped, echoed slightly against the lofty ceilings. “You’re late.”

His comment held none of the joking nature that my brother’s had.

“You’re observant,” I said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

My mother shot me a warning look, but she knew it was no use. I wasn’t afraid to speak my mind at family gatherings anymore. Since grandfather cut me off, I had nothing to lose. I’d already suffered the worst thing they could have ever done to me. My grandfather only raised a brow and sat at the head of the table like he was preparing for a board meeting, not a family dinner. It was a role he had always played well—the CEO of our lives.

Everyone launched into their usual opening-act small talk about work, weather, and whatever society scandal my mother was feigning shock over this week. Kirsten kept the conversation with me light, asking about my job at the gallery and latest photography commissions. It was a welcome lifeline in an otherwise suffocating room.

“Your brother told me you’ve had two rather big sales recently?” Kirsten asked me.

I nodded as I took a sip of my wine. “I did. You would have loved the second one. It was a woman who had found out her husband was cheating and she came in to spend his money.”

Kirsten raised a hand to cover the laughter that was starting to shake her shoulders.

“Will those sales pay your rent?” my mother inquired politely as she tuned in to our conversation.

“They will,” I replied stiffly.

“So that means you should be able to come to dinner next week as well since you won’t have to prioritize work.” My mother said it like a matter of fact, making the decision for me instead of allowing me to control my own life.

“What a joy,” I mumbled under my breath. Winn snorted softly next to me as he fought to keep his face straight. He slipped his hand under the table to squeeze mine.

When I was a kid, still trying my best to play by the rules, I’d often have Sebastian tag along. We’d share conspiratorial looks and giggle behind our glasses of lemonade as my mother would complain about how the head of the ladies’ luncheon at the country club served turkey instead of ham sandwiches that week.

How horrifying.

Somehow, today set a new record, with my grandfather waiting until the third course before setting his sights on me. “So,” Franklin said, setting his glass down with a quiet thunk. “Are you still living in that dump you call an apartment in the West Village? With that girl, Hannah?”

“It’s Hallie,” I corrected, teeth clenched. “And yes, still there. Shocking, I know—some people survive without marble countertops and private elevators.”

Kirsten gave a soft warning clink of her fork against her plate. I appreciated the subtle attempt to divert the current, but we were already too deep. This same explosion happened every other week. Some more violent than others.

My grandfather exhaled as if my response had confirmed every disappointment he held about me. “You had every opportunity. Every resource. And you traded that in for what? Street photography and some rent-controlled shoebox?”