Beau Insanity
BEAU
Insanity
Dallas, Texas
"The cage is always prettiest right before you realize you're trapped." – Unknown
***
I woke at 4:32 AM, staring at a ceiling that soared fifteen feet above me in my Dallas penthouse, and felt absolutely nothing.
Not the satisfaction of being back in my own space. Not the comfort of Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count I couldn't pronounce. Not even the familiar city hum filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a skyline worth billions.
Just... emptiness. A hollow where something vital used to be.
My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, mocking me with its silence.
Seven days since regionals. Seven days since I'd stood in that parking lot and told Winnie I loved her, watched her walk away without saying it back, then driven to a hotel because I couldn't face the ranch without her permission to stay.
Seven days since I'd returned to Dallas Sunday afternoon to "think things through" before my father's Monday deadline—which was today, in approximately four hours—and discovered that thinking things through just meant drowning in a city that no longer fit.
I'd tried calling. Twice. Both times, it had gone to voicemail, her voice clipped and professional. You've reached Winnie. Leave a message.
I hadn't. What was I supposed to say? Hey, I'm in Dallas trying to figure out if I'm brave enough to walk away from a million dollars and my entire legacy for you, but I'm pretty sure the answer is yes, I'm just terrified of doing it wrong?
Pathetic.
I threw off the covers—too soft, too expensive, too much like sleeping in a cloud that smothered instead of comforted—and padded barefoot across the marble floors to the bathroom.
The penthouse was exactly as I'd left it,: sterile, modern, showcasing the kind of wealth that whispered instead of shouted.
Minimalist furniture in shades of gray and black.
Abstract art on the walls that cost a fortune and meant nothing.
A kitchen I'd never cooked in because there were three restaurants in the building and a chef on call.
It felt like a museum. Or a mausoleum.
I splashed water on my face, avoiding my reflection—hollow-eyed, scraggly, looking like I'd aged a decade in a week—and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt.
Coffee. I needed coffee. Then I could think.
Make lists. Figure out the logistics of walking away from Sterling Industries without my father destroying me in the process.
The kitchen was spotless, untouched since the cleaning service had come through yesterday. I moved toward the espresso machine—a gleaming Italian monstrosity—and was reaching for the beans when the door to the service entrance opened.
"Mr. Sterling!"
Maria, one of the building's staff, hurried in with a bright smile that felt like assault at 4:30 AM.
She was trailed by Thomas, another staff member, both of them in crisp uniforms. "We heard you moving around.
Let us prepare your coffee—and breakfast?
We have fresh croissants from the bakery downstairs, or I can prepare your usual omelet—"
"No." The word came out harsher than I meant, and I softened it with effort. "Thank you, Maria, but I've got it. I can make my own coffee."
She looked genuinely distressed, like I'd suggested something scandalous. "But Mr. Sterling, that's what we're here for. Your father specifically requested—"
"I don't care what my father requested." I gentled my tone, seeing her flinch. "I appreciate it, really. But I need to do this myself. Please."
They exchanged glances—the kind that said rich people are weird—but retreated with murmured apologies, leaving me alone in the cavernous kitchen. I stood there, hands braced on the counter, breathing through the claustrophobia.
This. This was my life here. People doing everything for me, anticipating my needs before I felt them, removing any semblance of self-sufficiency until I became a decorative object in my own existence.
At the ranch, I'd made coffee at 5 AM in Pops' ancient percolator, burning it half the time, and it had tasted like living.
Here, perfection was delivered on a silver platter, and it tasted like nothing.
I made the coffee myself—espresso, too strong, slightly burnt because I was out of practice with this machine—and took it to the windows, watching Dallas wake up.
The skyline glittered with early morning ambition: cranes building higher, traffic starting its crawl, the relentless pulse of a city that never questioned its own importance.
My phone buzzed. Then again. And again.
I checked it with a sinking feeling. Messages from people I'd barely thought about in months.
Marcus Liliard: Heard you're back in town! Drinks at The Mansion tonight? Everyone's asking about you.
Garrett Thompson: Bro, where have you been? Need the full Oklahoma story. Dinner this week?
Brad Wilson: Sterling! The prodigal son returns. Let's hit the links this weekend.
I stared at the messages, at the casual assumption that I'd just slot back into our old patterns—expensive dinners, bottle service, golf at clubs that cost more to join than most people made in a year.
These weren't friends. They were networking contacts, people I'd partied with because our fathers did business together.
I left them all on read.
Another buzz. This one from Solène.
Solène: Welcome back to civilization! Coffee this week? I've missed you baby. I knew you'd comeback. ?
Followed immediately by: Also my parents are throwing a gala Friday. You should come. As my date? No pressure, but... it could be fun. Like old times.
Like old times. When we'd been the golden couple of Dallas society—pretty, connected, perfectly curated for Instagram. Before I'd realized that our entire relationship had been performance art.
I typed and deleted three responses before settling on: Thanks, but I'm not sure what my schedule looks like. I'll let you know.
Coward.
Another message, this one from my mother: Breakfast tomorrow? I'd like to see you before the board meeting. We need to discuss your presentation. Love you.
The board meeting. Right. My father had scheduled it for 10 AM today—"informal," he'd said, but nothing with Richard Sterling III was ever informal. This would be my official introduction as VP of Strategic Development.
My stomach churned, the coffee turning acidic.
The next message made me pause.
Z: Your father wants to see you at 8 AM. His office. Don't be late—he's already in a mood.
Z. My father's executive assistant, my sort-of friend, and the guy who had been reporting on me the whole time.
I typed back: Tell him I'll be there.
Z: Between you and me? He's been talking about your "position" all week. The VP thing is already a done deal in his mind. Just... be prepared.
Me: Thanks for the warning.
Z: Yeah. Look, Beau... whatever you're thinking about doing, just remember he holds all the cards. The accounts, the trust, everything. Don't make any moves without a plan. Also I'm still sorry for deceiving you.
I stared at that message for a long time. Z knew. Of course he knew—he'd probably been in the room when my father structured the whole manipulation.
Fuck that.
I grabbed my laptop, settling onto the couch—too firm, designer-selected for aesthetics over comfort—and started researching. Family lawyers. Trust dissolution specialists. Anyone who could tell me how to extract myself from my father's financial stranglehold.
***
By 7 AM, I had three attorneys on conference call, all of them specializing in family wealth management and trust dissolution.
"Mr. Sterling," the lead attorney—Margaret Chen, highly recommended, shark-sharp reputation—said carefully, "what you're asking for is complicated.
Your trust fund, the assets tied to Sterling Industries, the family accounts—they're structured specifically to prevent this kind of extraction.
Your father's lawyers are very, very good. "
"I understand. But there must be a way." I leaned forward, elbows on knees, exhaustion making me blunt. "What's actually mine? What did I earn, separate from my father's control?"
Silence on the line, broken only by the sound of papers rustling.
Then Margaret's voice, gentler now, "Very little, I'm afraid.
The penthouse is technically owned by Sterling Industries—corporate housing for executives.
Your primary trust doesn't vest until you're thirty-five, or upon meeting certain employment conditions, which your father controls as CEO.
The secondary accounts are discretionary, and according to my research, he froze them approximately four months ago. "
"What about income? Salary from previous work?"
"Did you work for Sterling Industries in any capacity?"
"Yes. Summers during college. Two years after graduation in business development."
"Then that income was deposited into company-managed accounts, which..." She trailed off, the answer obvious.
I laughed, bitter and sharp. "So I'm twenty-four years old, and I own nothing. Not the penthouse, not my car, not even my own bank account. Everything is his."
"Not nothing," Margaret corrected firmly.
"You have personal assets—gifts from relatives outside direct family control, some investments made in your name through channels your father doesn't oversee, a small inheritance from your maternal grandmother.
I'd estimate, conservatively, around $200,000 in fully liquid assets you can access without his approval. "
Two hundred thousand dollars. It sounded like a fortune—it was a fortune to most people, more than Pops probably saw in three years of ranching. But it also wasn't billions. Wasn't the trust fund I'd grown up assuming would catch me if I fell. It was just... enough to start over. If I was careful.
"How fast can I access it?"