Page 1 of Break Points and Face Offs

1

PRIESTLEY

I’ve become far too accustomed to campus life. Surrounded by ivy-covered buildings and the stink of old books, I’ve let myself become comfortable and sheltered.

The grassy vistas and all that space up at Princeton will soon be entirely replaced by … this. People rushing by at a maddening speed. Eyes glued to their phones, or else shouting into them. Skyscrapers a thousand feet high.

This is my world, the one I’ve always been destined for. The fast-paced, cut-throat epicenter of finance.

Wall Street.

I take a deep breath and adjust my tie before climbing out of the cab. I’m almost mowed down the second my foot hits the sidewalk by a passing bike.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders as I enter the glass-walled entrance of the Rosenthal Asset Management building.

On rare breaks from school when I was a child, I would spend most of my time here, trying not to get under Father’s feet, being spoiled by his secretary with candy bars and juice boxes. Tucked away in the copy machine room with a good book, or sitting quietly in the corner of a meeting room, taking mental notes in preparation for the day this would all be mine.

After riding the elevator up to the fifty-sixth floor, I arrive at my father’s executive office. There’s a new young man sitting behind reception—probably an intern, by the nervous look on his face and the way he keeps readjusting pens and Post-it Notes as if trying to appear busy.

His head snaps toward me the second he sees me arrive, but I can tell by his expression he doesn’t know who I am. Annoying.

“Good morning, welcome to Rosenthal⁠—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. I don’t have time for the spiel. “I have a meeting with my father.”

His eyes go comically wide. “Your f⁠—”

“Mr. Rosenthal,” I confirm.

He looks down at the same type of appointment book my father’s old receptionist—Marjorie—used to scrawl in when I was a child. That heavy book was so interesting to me back then. I can’t believe Father still manages his schedule on paper. That will all change once I’m in charge. Everything will be electronic—obviously. And that’s just the start.

“Priestley,” the new receptionist begins before stopping himself, perhaps realizing he’s being far too familiar. “Mr. Rosenthal, sir,” he adds, turning pale.

“Is my father ready to see me?” I offer, seeing as the poor guy has gotten himself all tongue-tied. He may be incompetent, but I’m sure he gets enough criticism from my father.

“Um, let me just give him a call, if you wouldn’t mind …”

He gestures to the waiting room.

The chairs and coffee table are dated—throwbacks from the ‘80s. Father’s lucky he’s the best and that people trust the Rosenthal name. His success certainly isn’t due to innovation or anything remotely cutting edge. He hires people from old families and with trusted backgrounds, preferably Princeton men. I’ve heard him audibly scoff at the concept of up-and-coming talent emerging anywhere other than the halls of the Ivy League.

I only hope it won’t take too long for him to listen to me when I start work here. That he’ll let me help him drag this place kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.

I peruse the latest issue of Time Magazine while I wait. The waiting room is deathly silent. I can hear the receptionist’s chair squeaking every time he moves. I look up from my magazine a couple of times to catch him staring at me before pretending he was looking at something on the wall and looking away. I briefly consider the possibility that I have something on my face and try to check discreetly in the reflection of the glass table, ignoring the potpourri.

The door to my father’s office swings open. Two men come out, laughing heartily. Father follows closely behind. A cold sweat starts to bead on the back of my neck. I take a deep breath before standing, smoothing my damp palms down my pants. I’m wearing my best suit—the one Father had tailored for me on Saville Row—and I had a manicure yesterday afternoon in preparation for my father’s critical gaze. But the second I see him, I might as well be eight years old again on Christmas morning, dressed in my pajamas, being asked why I’m awake already.

Father doesn’t spot me until he’s leading the men through the reception area. His gaze lands on mine. I make sure I’m standing up straight, my shoulders squared and my jaw set—the confident demeanor of a man in charge. He nods.

“Ah, gentleman, this is my son, Priestley.”

Father introduces us, but I already know who they are. I’ve made it my mission to memorize the name and face of every business associate and country club member Father’s ever introduced me to. Where possible, I also memorize important facts and details about them, like the names of grown-up children in college or spouses’ names and occupations. Most of my father’s business associates are men on their third trophy wife with multiple grown children housed anywhere from prison on drugs charges to the U.S. Senate.

I make sure these men understand that I already knew who they were the second I saw them.

“Mr. Anderson, how is Laura enjoying Sarah Lawrence?”

His eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise.