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I slice into my filet mignon as the server deposits a fresh Scotch in a glass adorned with a one-carat canary yellow diamond encircled by their logo, and I feast my attention on the sparkling city view.
Everyone should have a chance to see the world from the hundredth story of a century-old building at least once in their life.
Unfortunately not everyone will.
The man and woman at the next table over hold hands, a tall candle flickering between them, throwing reflections in their starry gazes.
I imagine that’s what love is like—blinded by the warm glow of something both dangerous and beautiful.
Not that I’d know.
My parents had that. At least from what I remember and what I’ve read in the dozens of biographies written about them since their passing two decades ago. Edie and Pierce Westcott II were iconic. American as apple pie. Timeless as Chanel. Fascinating as Princess Diana.
They’d spent most of their lives polishing the Westcott name, building charities, foundations, and futuristic business endeavors for the greater good of humanity—only to have it all cut short when a faulty wire in the engine of their personal jet took them down in fiery flames extinguished by the frigid Atlantic ocean.
Most of what I know of them came from books and articles written long after their deaths.
Someone once compared them to Jackie and JFK, minus the infidelity and assassination that colored their early years. My mother was a style trendsetter, with women all across the world mimicking her signature sleek chestnut bob, and my father—in his younger years—graced covers of heartthrob magazines everywhere. He was once named the world’s most eligible bachelor … a title I inherited my first few years out of Harvard Business School.
My father relished every second of being the eligible bachelor of his day … until my mother came along and swept him off his feet.
They crossed paths in a Moroccan souk in the early eighties. Legend had it, she was perusing caftans, the sheer, vibrant patterns blowing in the wind, and he spotted her from across the way, instantly smitten the moment they exchanged smiles. When he discovered they were both from the States, he invited her to dine with him that evening. They stayed up all night talking and he declared his affections for her before the sun had a chance to rise the next morning.
Their love was the thing fairytales are made of, or so I’m told by former staffers who adored them. I knew my parents for fifteen years of my life, but those memories have faded with time.
They’ve also made me the man I am today, a man who doesn’t dwell on the past, a man who only moves forward.
At eighteen, I inherited my parents’ massive estate.
By twenty-eight, I’d turned the Westcott fortune into over a billion dollars, becoming one of the youngest billionaires in the world.
Two years ago, my net worth topped a trillion.
There isn’t a man in the world who needs nor deserves that kind of money, but building wealth, breaking ground, and conquering industries is the only thing I know how to do—and I’m fucking amazing at it.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Westcott?” My server stops by once more.
“I’ll take the check,” I say, refusing to remove my stare from the twinkling skyline.
Somewhere out there, Sophie is drinking dessert wine and binge watching some God-awful show—alone.
I get the sense that maybe she likes to be alone.
Perhaps we have that in common.
If we’re going to be alone in this life, perhaps we should be alone … together.
Ten
Sophie
Past
He grins wide when I climb into his car. “Long time, no see, beautiful.”
He hasn’t been to the café in the three weeks that have passed since the party, and for a while, I thought I’d never see him again, but he texted me a week ago, reminding me that we were going to celebrate my eighteenth birthday together.
I almost said no.
I was certain he’d forgotten about me, that all those things he said in the car that first night were in an attempt to appease a broken heart.
Curiosity got the best of me.
That and I missed the way I felt when I was with him—euphoric.
Everything’s been gray since that night.
“Happy birthday.” Nolan hands me a box the color of robins’ eggs wrapped in a white satin ribbon.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
His eyes light in the dark interior of his coupe. “Of course I did.”
My heart thumps hard in my ribcage. For a moment, I wonder if I wore too much perfume tonight. If the lip gloss I nervously slicked on will keep him from wanting to kiss me. If he thinks I look just as pretty in jeans and a sweater as I did in that vintage dress.
“Open it,” he says.
I tug the ribbon loose and gently pry the lid off.
