Page 7 of Trust Fund Baby

My smile stretched into a real one because if there was one thing I understood, it was a woman scorned. “Right this way.” I motioned toward the back of the gallery where some of our most expensive pieces were kept. “I think I know exactly what you’re looking for.”

I grew up around women just like her. Sebastian’s mother, a vibrant, kind woman with a laugh that could fill a room, had weathered her own storms of infidelity with Seb’s father. She possessed an unwavering strength, a quiet resilience that I admired from afar. I remembered the way she always greeted me with a warm smile and a plate of freshly baked cookies, even during the most difficult times.

She never spoke ill of Seb’s father, instead focusing on raising her son with love and teaching him the importance of family.

But her efforts were lost on Seb. With every careless action of his father, a man who chased fleeting pleasures and cared little for the consequences, Sebastian grew more closed off and jaded.

The beautiful smile I’d loved seeing, the one that could light up a room, came less. He’d retreated into himself, his eyes growing distant, the spark dimming with each new disappointment. By the time senior year had rolled around, he was following in his father’s footsteps, turning to alcohol and frivolous, shiny flings. The only time I saw glimpses of the old Sebastian was on the nights we’d slip away to spend on his sailboat, just the two of us like it had always been.

God, I’d gone ten years barely thinking about that man, and now I couldn’t go a minute without something reminding me of him.

So, I tried my best to focus on my job. On the art. But even when the woman decided on one of our most expensive pieces and signed to have it delivered to her house, making two large sales in as many weeks, my fingers itched to open my phone again.

Nostalgia, I figured, explained the thirty minutes I spent reading Sebastian Whittaker’s email after locking up the gallery. Fascination for when I clicked on the button to reply. Pure delusion for when my fingers started typing. Idiocy when I hit send.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Doors are so overrated.

It meant nothing—sending that email. Just a flippant response. A throwaway line meant to curb the allure.

But, deep down, I knew better.

The second I hit send; I knew I’d reopened something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

Everything had felt so much simpler before I’d seen him. Before that email. Before I remembered the version of myself that I once believed would belong to him.

By the time I reached my apartment, I’d convinced myself Sebastian wouldn’t answer. He probably wouldn’t even see it. Sent it in a drunken stupor or something. I climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed through my front door.

Hallie was still at the workout class she’d opted to take tonight in hopes of hearing something juicy she could use for her articles, and I was thankful to have the space for myself. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fake a smile and pretend everything was fine.

But all I could think about was that stupid email and the stupid person who had sent it.

I pulled the phone out of my pocket, dropped it face down on my kitchen counter, and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with cold water.

This was the moment when I could walk away. Pretend I hadn’t seen the email. That I hadn’t answered. That I didn’t care.

But the problem was—I did.

But whether I missed Seb’s friendship or just wanted answers about what happened back then, I couldn’t deny it.

I cared.

4

Seb

“Get up.”

The voice was like a horrible alarm clock, cutting through my hangover. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t have to. Only one person in my life spoke to me like that.

“Sebastian.” A hand shoved my shoulder. Firmer this time.

My head pounded as I pried my eyes open. The world came into focus in fragments: gilded crown molding framing high ceilings, antique mirrors catching pale morning lights, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the far wall, draped in heavy silk curtains that I hadn’t bothered to pull shut last night in my drunken state. Hell, judging by the shirt I was still wearing and the tie haphazardly loosened around my neck, I’d forgotten to do a lot last night. Beyond those windows, Central Park stretched out like a painting—mist curling above the treetops, Manhattan glittering beyond.