Page 8 of Trust Fund Baby

My father had bought this place for my mother before their divorce. It was an apology gift after the second mistress. After the third mistress, he got her a house in the Hamptons, and that was where she’d been ever since.

I sat up slowly, running a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of stubble I hadn’t bothered shaving last night. Between the business meetings and extracurricular parties, I had to attend this week, it had slipped my mind entirely.

“Christ,” I muttered.

“Are you listening?” My father’s voice again, clipped and controlled like always. He stood at the foot of the bed, wearing his signature navy suit, the same one he wore on the cover of Time magazine when he was named person of the year for his achievements. He’d likely taken a detour to my apartment on his way to the office.

Whittaker Holdings’ patriarch. And, unfortunately, my father.

“I’m listening,” I said hoarsely. “Maybe not awake yet, but I’m listening.”

He glanced around the room, eyes skimming over the empty bottle of scotch on the dresser, the leather chair in the corner of the bedroom draped with someone’s designer coat. Hannah? Maria? Whatever her name was, she must have left it behind.

“Did you forget about the meeting this morning?” he asked coolly.

I hesitated to ask what meeting he was talking about, pushing off being on the receiving end of Edward Whittaker’s famous glare for a little while longer. The last I checked, my only meeting for the day was with the head of marketing regarding the newest jewelry storefront being opened in Tokyo by one of our subsidiaries. I figured I’d take the call after my gym session on the way to The Nest, the private members’ club my family belonged to.

My responsibilities at the family’s company were superficial at best. As expected, I joined Whittaker Holdings after graduating from Princeton nearly six years ago. But just because I exchanged classes for meetings didn’t mean I stopped having a little fun in between. To say my father believed I’d eventually run the company would be a lie. If he did, he would have given me more responsibility than a glorified sales consultant, looking for new talent to add to the monster that Whittaker Holdings had become.

I pushed to my feet, ignoring the low throb behind my eyes. A black lace bra lay tangled near the towering mahogany bedroom door. Another article of clothing that Hannah (or was it Maria?) left behind.

Right.

I didn’t remember much about last night except the burn of scotch and the usual cocktail of bad decisions. Work hard, play harder—that was the Whittaker brand, wasn’t it? I’d learned from the best after all.

It was hypocritical of my father to judge me for indulging a little, really.

I crossed into the main room, leaving my father to follow. The penthouse condo opened up in grand proportions: a sunken living area with matching tufted velvet sofas arranged beneath a chandelier older than me, some ridiculous vintage crystal thing my mother had flown in from Paris. The walls were paneled in dark, lacquered wood, broken up by shelves lined with first-edition books I’d never read.

My mother took advantage of my father’s credit card every time he offered it instead of an actual apology. Every member of the Whittaker family had their own vice.

Thanks to my mother’s indulgences, this apartment had been featured in Architectural Digest. But despite the carefully curated paint color that was matched with the one-of-a-kind wood floors, this place still held its ghosts.

“Sebastian.” My father’s voice echoed sharper in the cavernous space. “The meeting with the Zurich investors. Nine a.m. About the new makeup brand you helped bring on. I was very clear that you needed to be there.”

“Right,” I muttered, already veering toward the kitchen where the coffee machine sat idle beside a bar cart full of half-empty liquor bottles I’d collected. It was barely past seven, and already I could feel the weight of the day closing in.

My father didn’t move from where he stood near the dining table, perfectly still like one of the marble statues in the foyer. Eyeing me with the kind of scrutiny that would have sent his assistant scurrying for cover. Me? I was used to it. That had always been Edward Whittaker’s style. Never give in. Make others fold.

I turned on the espresso machine, glancing at the files one of my father’s assistants had dropped off earlier in the week about potential prospects he thought would be good for the company. I hadn’t bothered cracking them open. Even though it was my job to approve new company purchases that we made, if my father had formed an opinion on something, nothing I said would matter.

“Do me a favor,” I said as the machine hissed to life, “next time you feel the urge to play wake-up call, don’t. I’ll be at the meeting.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me in that measured, unimpressed way he had, like I was some minor inconvenience. It was the same look he’d given me most of my life. No matter what I did—what award I achieved or what game-winning play I made as a kid—nothing was ever good enough in his eyes.

I wasn’t sure why I had ever expected a different reaction from him. As if one day he’d magically become a good father that cared about anything more than his bottom dollar. Maybe then I’d finally stop being disappointed.

“Take a shower before you come into the office.” My father wrinkled up his nose. “I can still smell the scotch on you.”

He left without further comment. I held my breath until I heard the ding of the elevator in the foyer as it descended to the lobby. Sighing, I slumped as the sputtering coffee machine finished brewing.

With a father like that, who could blame me for having a little fun?

Maybe that’s why I’d opened that old email account when I’d gotten home from McGuire’s the other day. Some fucked-up form of entertainment that was easily classifiable as self-inflicted torture.

Seeing Roxie King again after all these years felt like a carrot being dangled in front of my face. When we were kids, Roxie was the only person that understood what I was going through behind closed doors. She’d listened when I told her about the newest fucked-up experience I’d had as the heir to the Whittaker fortune.

She was the only person in my life that would listen without judgment and knew exactly what I needed to feel better—distraction. Somehow, Roxie always knew that all I wanted was to vent to someone that would listen and then do whatever I could to forget it all entirely after I got it out.