29. The Price of Trust
29
THE PRICE OF TRUST
ALEX
The Apex Club sits thirty stories above Seattle, where monthly dues cost more than most mortgages and the membership waiting list reads like a Forbes "30 Under 30" roster. Tonight, floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the approaching snowfall while I take out my frustrations on a glass of scotch that’s quickly disappearing.
Usually, I sit at a certain booth. With sometimes Grayson and Connor in tow.
But not tonight. Tonight calls for sitting at the bar.
I check my watch. 8:12.
Dad's running his 'usual 40-minutes late' again. These 'meet-ups' of ours only happen once every six months, but the pattern never changes. He'll arrive late, full of excuses about board meetings and market timing, just like he did when I was sixteen and waiting for him to show up to my debate finals.
Just like he did when my mother finally stopped waiting.
“Give Marketing whatever it wants.”
“Make sure the bathrooms in your buildings always have soap.”
“Never fall for anyone while you’re on top. ”
His standard wisdom, delivered between missed dinners and forgotten promises. The same man who built Drake Technologies into an empire but couldn't show up for his own marriage.
I never understood my mother's decision to leave until recently. I'd blamed her for walking away, for choosing a new life over our family legacy. But sitting here, checking my watch like I've done for thirty years, I'm starting to see it differently.
You can only wait so long for someone to choose you back.
I snort. Guess I screwed that one up, didn’t I?
And speaking of “screwing,” that’s all I expected to hear from the guys right about now.
With three days until Christmas, the three of us should be packing our bags and heading for the bachelor cabin right about now.
Lately, the two of them have been silent—likely working.
Working is exactly what I’d be doing right now…if I weren’t brooding into my scotch. I check my watch again.
8:16.
With a sigh, I take another swig of my scotch, just as a sandy-blonde woman sidles up to the seat next to mine. She glances over, sporting the kind of smile that says I’m going to need two more scotch-on-the-rocks before this is all said and done.
I barely raise my hand to motion to the bartender before she speaks.
“Mr. Drake?” She asks, though she seems to know the answer to that.
“Yes?”
“Hi!” She reaches out a hand. “I’m Kathryn Elizabeth Acosta.” She lifts the same hand and flashes a rock on her finger. “Soon to be Mrs. Kathryn Elizabeth Waller. It’s wonderful to see you here.”
I lift my glass to my lips. “Is it? ”
“Oh yes. My fiancé is a huge fan of yours. He’s meeting me here soon. Honestly. We’d wondered if we might see someone like you here at the club. Ya see, we can’t afford memberships—yet—but we’re here on a guest pass, and I just think?—“
I swallow another mouthful of scotch, tuning out the woman’s high-pitched soliloquy. I’m not usually this rude, but I can’t help thinking about patterns.
About men who build empires but can't build homes. About women who eventually stop waiting for someone to show up.
And just when my thoughts can’t get any worse, I get a message in the “Stanford Studs” group chat.
GRAYSON: Yo, A-dog, have you seen this yet?
He sends a link. A link to Mackenzie’s blog.
GRAYSON: Apparently, she’s shutting the site down. Says this is her last blog post. You might want to read this one
My jaw ticks as I stare at the screen.
Just what I need. Another take-down post that paints me as the Satan of Silicon Valley.
I glance up and notice that Miss Guest Pass is still talking.
Between the two choices, I choose the satan hit-piece.
I click on the link and start reading, my fingers gripping my glass too hard.
**What We Don’t Talk About**
There’s a conversation we’ve been avoiding in the tech world, and it starts with one uncomfortable truth: trust isn’t just a buzzword. It’s a lifeline.
We build systems designed to predict and anticipate human behavior, yet we’re terrified of exposing our own humanity. We reward innovation and efficiency while sidelining the people who make it possible. And somewhere along the way, I’ve been complicit in that.
I’ve spent years building walls around myself—around my feelings. Walls designed to protect, to defend, to preserve. But those same walls have kept out the voices I needed to hear the most.
Someone recently told me that walls don’t just keep people out—they keep you locked in. And I’ve realized how true that is. Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the foundation of trust.
Without it, we’re just machines chasing metrics, disconnected from the very people we’re supposed to serve.
This isn’t an easy thing to admit, and it’s even harder to change. But change starts with honesty.
So here it is: for a platform that’s all about exposing the truth, I haven’t always gotten it right.
I’ve been espousing better community, more inclusion and more transparency in the workplace.
But in my personal life, I’ve done the opposite the last few years.
I’ve prioritized results over relationships, performance over people. I’ve been part of the problem.
But I want to be part of the solution.
Starting now.
I feel in love with a bad man. And he left in the worst way—as bad men do.
But in doing so, I erected all these walls. Fashioned weapons, so that it wouldn’t happen again.
And because of it, I hurt the next man who wanted to love me. A flawed man, yes—as we all are.
But it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t bad. I used my weapons on him all the same. And because my targets were pointed in the wrong direction, every single one of those weapons backfired. Blew up in my face.
I deserved it.
Because when you find The One, putting a target on his back is a recipe for self-destruction.
I was self-destructing for a long time. And now I wish I could go back.
Tell that man that I would jump into the line of fire, take heavy artillery to the chest, just so that he knows that I'm choosing him. Choosing us. Choosing trust over fear.
Because sometimes the biggest exposé isn't about corporate culture or tech leadership or glass walls that hide nothing.
Sometimes it's about yourself.
This is my last post. Not because I'm giving up the fight for better corporate culture, but because I'm choosing to fight it differently. From within. With honesty. With trust.
If he'll let me.
-MG
My hands shake as I lower my phone. Next to me, Miss Guest Pass is still talking, something about startup dreams and venture capital, but her words fade into white noise.
Through the club's windows, Seattle's snow falls harder, transforming the city into something new. Something possible.
"Alex Drake!" A male voice cuts through my thoughts. "I can't believe my luck!"
I look up to find Roberto Waller striding toward me, all Brooks Brothers suit and manufactured confidence. Mac's ex-husband looks exactly like the type of man who'd trade in twenty years of marriage for a younger model - polished surface, hollow center. He rests his hand possessively on Kathryn's baby bump, and suddenly I see the pattern so clearly: men who build walls instead of bridges, who choose control over connection.
Men like my father. Men like Roberto.
Men I swore I'd never become.
The scotch burns in my throat.
"Brad Kevensky!" Roberto continues, either oblivious to or ignoring my silence. "You know Brad Kevensky, right?"
I frown, memories of Mac's stories about missed promotions and "traditional values" making my fingers tighten around my glass. "Crying Corner Brad?"
"Um, sure. Well, he referred me to the opening at Drake Enterprises, Mr. Drake. You're now looking at your new Head of Accounting."
I blink, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. Mac's words from her blog post echo in my head: I fell in love with a bad man. And he left in the worst way—as bad men do.
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sure I didn't stammer." I set my glass down with deliberate care. "No."
"No as in 'I'm not your new Head of Accounting'?"
"Or you're a 'head', alright. The kind that comes on the end of a cock that, I'm guessing, is as small and flaccid as yours has to be."
Kathryn gasps. Roberto's face turns an interesting shade of purple as his carefully constructed image cracks.
"Now listen here—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"No, you listen." I stand, using every inch of my height advantage. "You had something real - someone real - and you threw it away because you couldn't handle her strength. Her brilliance. Her everything." I turn to Kathryn, raising my glass. "Congratulations on the baby. And on preparing to marry the world's floppiest dick. Though I suppose someone has to take one for the team."
Roberto sputters, but I'm already pulling out my phone, sending three rapid texts:
To Emma: Cancel dinner with Dad. And get me La Famiglia's address.
To the guys: Bachelor weekend's off. You already knew that. Enjoy the yacht
To my Cartier contact: Need that emerald ring. Whatever it costs.
"Sir?" Emma replies instantly. "La Famiglia's already programmed in your GPS. And Keith's choir is standing by."
I smile, dropping enough cash on the bar to cover my scotch and Roberto's bruised ego. Because sometimes the biggest walls aren't the ones we build around companies.
They're the ones we build around hearts.
And I have 48 hours until Christmas Eve to tear them all down and prove to Mac that some patterns actually can break.