Page 152 of Gilt

“Not if I can help it.”

“Because I still have a year of prep left.” I don’t want the fairytale to end, but summer is fading around us. Soon we’ll have to face the reality of our responsibilities in Belle Mère.

“And then what?” he asks.

“And then...” My mother had mentioned college before, but I’d always planned on sticking around and bailing Dad out of whatever new mess he found himself in at Pawnography. I never thought I’d get out of town. Las Vegas is a fly strip that’s hard to break free from, but now it seems possible. So, where does that leave me? “I don’t know.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises me. “Maybe we can go on some college visits this fall. NYU. You’d probably love Boston.”

“I’m not certain I have Harvard grades.”

“You have Harvard money,” he reminds me.

“What about you?” I interject, not wanting to consider if Hans’s blood money could be used for that expense. “Don’t you want to finish your degree?”

Jameson had left school—and the prescribed life his father had planned for him. Now that there is no one around to hold him to a vision of the future he didn’t share, he has decisions to make as well.

“Most people go to undergrad and business school in the hopes that they’ll land themselves at a fortune five hundred company,” he says. “I’m already acting CEO of one.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“But do you want it?” I ask in a small voice.

“I don’t think it’s forever,” he admits. “In a few years, Monroe will be able to take over. I know she’s always wanted to. My Dad was too stupid to realize she was the better choice for heir to the throne.”

I gulp and look away before he can catch the suspicion I suspect is written across my face. Monroe has plans of her own but it’s not my place to tell him about them. “What if it all crashed and burned?”

“Crashed and burned?” he repeats. “Are you plotting arson?”

“No need to call the lawyers.” Or the nice men with the strait jackets. “What if you just gave it up? You let it all fall apart? Without a West at the helm, what would happen?”

“Someone else would take over. There would be no crashing or burning. My family is invested enough within the company that we wouldn’t even notice.”

“Then why did you take over?” After the murder, Jameson had stepped up to take his father’s place. I’d assumed the move was made out of necessity, since he hadn’t wanted to inherit his father’s position. But if what he’s saying is true, then he did it for another reason.

“People needed reassurances,” he explains. “My family, my mother, my sister. The people who work for our company. It’s easier to accept the next person in line than to survive a power struggle within. If I play my cards right, I’ll be able to step away when I’m ready and hand it over to someone else. It’s figuring out how everything works and who everyone is first.”

I don’t have the smallest comprehension of what he’s talking about. My family business employs one person and relies on the slave labor of its owner and daughter to survive. But I am relieved that he isn’t stuck with West Enterprises forever. How long could he play the role of Nathaniel West before he became his father?

Jameson not too subtly shifts the topic of conversation from the serious turn it’s taken to what I want to do this afternoon. That far ahead I can commit to. He suggests everything from a visit to the iconic Tiffany to a Broadway show, but I already know my answer. “Central Park.”

“Central Park?” he repeats in disbelief.

“Horse-drawn carriage rides, mimes, there’s a zoo.”

“I thought you hadn’t been here before,” he says in an amused voice.

“I haven’t, which is why I need to see Central Park.” No amount of persuasion can sway me from this plan of action.

By the time we circle the block and find ourselves in front of the falafel shop once again, he’s given up.

“This time of day it is going to be murder to get there,” he grumbles as we climb into the back of the Lincoln.

I trail my finger down his thigh and blow him a kiss. “I have a few ideas on how we can pass the time.”

At one of the many entrances to the park, there is a man who has painted himself entirely in white—his clothing to his face and his hands. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. Apparently, this living statue gig is par for the course in Central Park, because Jameson is unimpressed.

“Take my picture!” I plant myself next to the man, who still doesn’t move. Jameson groans and digs a few dollars out of his pocket. It’s only then that I realize that this living art show is less about art and more about making money.