Page 61 of Trust Fund Baby

I forced my voice steady. “Right. Not personal.”

Martin had already moved on, his gaze flicking over the wall as if I’d vanished from the room. And that was when I knew—I couldn’t do this anymore.

I walked to my small desk in the back corner, my heels striking the floor in sharp, decisive beats. I picked up my mug, my notebook, the pen set my brother had given me when I’d first landed this job. Each item went into my bag with a finality I could feel deep in my bones.

It wasn’t until I was halfway to the door that Martin noticed. “What are you doing?”

I looked at him, letting every bit of exhaustion and clarity show on my face. “I’m making this personal.”

His brows drew together. “Roxanne—”

“First of all, it’s Roxie. You don’t get to call me by the name only my family uses when you’ve never even tried to get to know me as a person. Second, I quit.” The words came out clean, no frustration, no chance for him to smooth-talk me into staying.

I was done.

I loved this job, but it was clearly time for me to leave.

He blinked. Maybe he expected me to crumble, to apologize, to take it back. But I’d already stepped through the glass doors and into the late summer day before he could say another word.

The city hummed with energy, its relentless pulse unconcerned by my life crumbling around me. I had no job. I was still getting over the Sebastian situation. But for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t standing still.

I didn’t have a destination in mind, just the need to move. My heels clicked along the sidewalk. I was surrounded by the chatter of shoppers stepping out of boutiques, the occasional bark of a dog straining against its leash, and the honk of taxis as they fought their way through the gridlock in the streets.

The Upper East Side was already in that golden-hour phase where the air was warm but carried a tease of the cooler night to come. The light caught on limestone facades and wrought-iron balconies, glinting off glass storefronts and the chrome trim of cars stuck in the slow-moving traffic. Everything looked curated, and expensive.

I passed a wine shop where the staff were stacking bottles, a florist trimming stems from a bucket of dahlias the color of old brick, and a bakery giving off the scent of butter and sugar. Normally, I’d stop, maybe buy a pastry just to photograph it in the sunlight. Today, I kept going, the city pulling me forward like a current.

That’s when I saw it.

Wedged between a chic home goods store that sold an elevated version of what you could find in a cheap department store for ten times the price, and a boutique that sold nothing but cashmere was a new restaurant. The facade was all glass, floor to ceiling, giving passersby an unfiltered view of pale oak tables set with handcrafted plates and beautiful floral centerpieces. A row of velvet banquettes in deep fig hugged one wall, and a mirrored bar gleamed at the back, daring me to come take a closer look.

The signage wasn’t up yet, only a sleek poster announcing that the place would be coming soon, but the place was alive inside. Servers were busy cleaning glassware, and a chef was moving swiftly and purposefully around his team in the visible kitchen.

I pulled out my smaller camera, which I always kept in my purse, almost without thinking, framing shots through the glass. One angle to catch the curve of the banquette and the warm spill of light over it. Another to capture the reflection in the mirror, doubling the glow. I crouched slightly, adjusting until the row of wineglasses lined up like crystal soldiers.

And just like that, Sebastian was there, completely uninvited, in my head. Teasing me for crouching on a public sidewalk for “the shot,” then leaning over my shoulder to point out a detail I’d missed. Exactly what he used to do when the two of us would take the train into the city on the weekend. The memory was so vivid it winded me, and for a moment my hands went cold around my camera.

I was sliding it back into my bag when the restaurant door swung open. A man in a crisp white shirt and rolled-up sleeves stepped out, the scent of rosemary and something buttery following him. He glanced at me, then at the glass where I’d been aiming my lens.

“Hi there,” he said, with a smile. “This is my place. Are you a photographer?” he asked, with friendly curiosity in his voice.

I straightened, tucking hair behind my ear. “Umm, yeah. Kind of. Well, not … professionally. But yeah.” Not yet anyway.

“Can I see the photos you took?” he asked, and for some reason, I obliged, turning my camera screen toward him and scrolling through the photos I’d just taken. He nodded as we wheeled through.

“Well, you might not be a professional just yet, but it looks like you have an eye for it,” he said, smiling. “We open next month. It’s modern Mediterranean, with a focus on seasonal ingredients. Trying to bring farm-to-table to the city. The chef’s from Barcelona. We’re looking to build our website and need someone to capture the space, the food, and the whole vibe.”

His words landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through me. “A website?” I repeated, feeling like I was following three steps behind him in this conversation.

“Yeah. We’ve been talking to some agencies, but honestly, I think a smaller, more personal touch would work better. This might sound crazy, but I’ve just got this weird feeling you get our vibe. And I’m the kind of guy that follows his feelings. Would you be interested in taking the photos?”

My mind flickered instantly to Hallie—her writing skills, my photography. All those late-night conversations about going out on our own, the lists we’d made, the ideas we’d scribbled on our dream board that was still sitting propped in the corner of our living room, forgotten under the importance of our “real” jobs. Maybe the timing hadn’t been wrong before. Maybe we had just been too afraid to start.

“I might be, and I might know someone who could do a write up, too,” I said slowly. “Can I get your card?”

He handed it over, and I held onto it like it was a ticket to something bigger than either of us knew yet. “We’re going for something coastal to match the food,” he added, almost reading my mind.

“I can do coastal,” I said with a small smile.