Page 85 of Trust Fund Baby

He raised his glass in Nate’s direction. “Now this,” he said, nodding approvingly, “this is what building something looks like.”

Nate chuckled politely, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the compliment but too polite to deflect.

I stood there, smiling as though my chest wasn’t caving in. As though my heart hadn’t just been torn in two. Smiling, because that’s what Kings were expected to do.

But the question was, what did this King want to do?

I watched Nate laugh along with my grandfather, his eyes sparkling with excitement as they talked numbers and neighborhoods. He looked like he belonged here with his relaxed posture, wide smile, and voice that carried just enough charm to make everyone interested in what he had to say. He fit.

And for a split second, I tried to imagine myself fitting in, too. Imagine that this was my world—the polished laughter, the perfectly groomed lawns, the parties. Imagine the version of myself that my family always wanted me to be. Then I spied my brother across the room, looking far more miserable than I’d ever seen him, and realized that the thought suffocated me.

I didn’t want to fit in here. I never had.

Photography and food and reclamation of my art were who I was. The freedom I’d found behind my camera lens, creating something that belonged entirely to me and not my family.

That was real. That was who I was.

Not this.

If I stayed, I’d end up trapped in the same cycle of empty champagne toasts and fake plastic smiles, forever bending myself into someone else’s version of success.

So, I stood in the middle of my family’s mansion, the chandeliers glittering above and the music swelling around me and made myself a silent promise.

I will break free.

No matter how much it hurt. No matter who I had to leave behind.

Because the only thing worse than walking away from everything I’d ever known was staying and losing myself completely.

32

Seb

If irony had a sense of humor, it was laughing at me now.

After attempting once again to convince the only girl I’d ever really wanted that I wasn’t the same screw-up she remembered, and on Christmas Eve no less, here I was a few weeks later sitting in James’s Upper East Side brownstone while Hallie scrolled through photo boards for gala themes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Midnight in Paris,” she said, turning the phone toward us. “Classy. Romantic. Posh enough for your father’s donors but not tacky.”

James wrinkled his nose as he reached for another beer. “Sounds like you’re planning a prom, not a ball.”

“It’s a fundraiser,” Hallie shot back. “You need people with money to enjoy themselves if you want them to open their checkbooks.”

I leaned back against James’s leather sofa, staring at the skyline through the massive window. The city glittered, a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds, alive and buzzing. It was quite the change from the slower pace of Greenwich, where I’d spent the holidays, stuck in the very life I swore I wasn’t part of anymore. I dragged a hand over my face and groaned.

“Why the hell do I have to plan this thing?” I muttered. “It’s for the food bank. I just wish people could show up, write the check, and let me get my hands dirty at the actual opening. The last thing I want to do is pick tablecloth colors.”

Hallie arched a brow at me, unimpressed. “Because your last name gets people in the door. Because your family has half of New York owing them favors. And because if you want this food bank to thrive instead of being a token charity project, you need donors to care. That means a gala.”

James smirked. “Translation: quit whining, Whittaker. You’re the pretty face. Smile, shake hands, let the rich ladies kiss your cheek, and let us handle the boring parts.”

I shot him a glare. “I’m not a fucking show pony.”

“No,” Hallie said, leaning forward, “but you are the only one who can convince people this matters and that you care about it. Which means, unfortunately for you, you’re stuck.”

It was infuriating, but I had to admit that she was right. It was even more frustrating that a piece of me desperately wanted Roxie’s input on this plan. During our childhood, I spent a lot of time listening to her dream of the future she wanted to build. In those days, I was adrift, content with simply listening to her instead of trying to imagine my own future. Now that I was working toward something I cared about, her absence made it feel hollow.

But she’d made it painfully clear at the Christmas Eve party that she wanted nothing to do with me.