4. Nepo Baby
4
Nepo Baby
Evan
Although Dad used to bring me into the office every now and again when I was young, I’ve not been back here since I started Spearcrest. There’s an entire wall in there mounted with awards, achievements and framed articles, but it doesn’t feel as intimidating when I see Dad’s familiar face.
The relief is short-lived.
“Good, you’re here,” is his greeting.
“Like I told you, you’ll be starting in Operations under Gilbert Coulter, on Floor Five.”
His voice is steady and unemotional, not unkind but detached.
“You’ll be helping his team handle schedules, reports, logistics. Gilbert’s one of our best, and he doesn’t cut corners or play favourites, that’s why I chose him. He won’t care that you’re my son. If you’re late, if you slack off, or if you show up with anything less than your best, he’ll pull you up on it.”
He pauses, leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed.
His piercing blue eyes soften just slightly as he takes in my expression .
“I know this isn’t what you imagined for yourself, but it’s a starting point, Evan, and that’s something everyone needs—even you. Don’t underestimate the fact that even this role is a privilege: some people in New York study and compete for years just for entry positions like this one.”
He’s right, of course.
It doesn’t make me less miserable, but it does remind me not to let my misery become too obvious.
The last thing I need Dad to think is that I’m ungrateful as well as a total failure.
“You’ve got three months to show Gilbert and me that you’re serious about this,” he concludes.
“After that, the three of us will sit down and review your performance. The meeting will be formal, I want you to treat it as such. If Gilbert thinks you’ve earned it, you’ll move on to a role with more responsibilities. If not, you’ll be moved to a different department, and start from scratch.”
He leans back slightly, his tone softening further.
“This isn’t just about KMG, Evan. This is about you figuring out what kind of man you want to be. I want you to succeed—but you have to want it too.”
The elevator dings for Floor Five.
My feet don’t move at first, heavy as cinder blocks.
The number glows gold against brushed steel, waiting.
A second too long, then two.
Can’t avoid this forever.
Gilbert Coulter is exactly the kind of man my father would trust with putting me to work—solid, stoic, and utterly unshakeable.
His suit is crisp yet understated, his grey hair cropped short and practical.
His handshake feels more like a test than a welcome, his sharp black eyes assess me in seconds, lingering for a split second on the Rolex on my wrist.
“Your father has high expectations. Let’s make him proud.”
It’s kinder than I expected.
Somehow, that shakes me up more than if he’d barked orders.
And just like that, my first day at KMG begins.
Gilbert immediately hands me off to a Mrs Velazquez, middle-aged, dark-haired, two kids—I assume based on the pictures pinned to her cubicle walls.
Her gait is so firm and authoritative that you can practically hear her heels even while she’s walking on carpet.
Mrs Velazquez wastes no time in handing me off to a harried-looking Mr Holcomb.
He seems so busy and rushed that he doesn’t even catch my name, calls me “Steven”, and hands me a stack of reports to organise, cross-reference and file.
By the time I reach my cramped, windowless desk, I’ve been metaphorically reminded at least seven times that I’m nothing special.
Around me, the office is one incessant, indifferent drone: phones ringing, keyboards clattering, photocopiers humming.
No one glances my way, which is probably for the best.
My tasks are mind-numbingly repetitive: enter data, check for errors, rinse, repeat.
Hours stretch and distort.
My back aches from hunching over the keyboard.
My head throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache.
How the fuck do people do this for a living?
I have no idea. When the day finally ends, all I know is that if there’s a hell, it probably looks a lot like the Operations department at KMG.
Aptly, my way home is paved with good intentions: eat, change, go for a run, workout, a swim, a protein shake, and a good meal.
Keep my body fit and healthy.
And then I’m home, and what I actually do is grab two slices of leftover pizza, eat them cold out of the fridge, loosen my tie—I don’t even have the strength to take it off—and crawl into bed.
I don’t even realise I’m asleep until much later when Dad shakes me awake.
“Get changed, son,” he says, “and come get some dinner.”
I nod, sitting up, my head full of angry hammers.
I stumble out of my suit and into sweats, then I sit down on my bed to check my phone.
Fifteen texts in the Spearcrest Kings group chat—the name seems to mock me now—mostly Sev and Zach fighting like a divorced couple over which one of them Iakov should come visit over the half-term holiday.
A couple of texts from Adele, my sister, asking if I’ve been sacked yet.
Nothing from Sophie.
I drop back into my pillows with a groan.
What am I doing it all for, if not for her?
If I thought the first day would be the worst, I was wrong.
Each day drags on, more endless and tedious than the last, until the weekend starts to feel like nothing more than a distant, unattainable dream .
Friday comes after what feels like a century of drudgery.
For once, the day feels almost bearable—the light twinkling at me from the end of the tunnel.
It’s the first time I don’t dread stepping into the office.
At lunch, a burst of optimism inspires me to text Sophie, asking if we’re still on for this weekend.
Maybe this week hasn’t been a total waste.
Maybe she’ll say yes.
Maybe all of this will be worth it.
She doesn’t reply until the day is over—my phone buzzes just as I step out of the elevator.
I stop in the atrium to read her text, heart clenched tight in suspended hope, when my attention is caught by fragments of a conversation between a few employees clustered near the sitting area.
“Poor Gilbert,” someone says, voice low.
“Stuck babysitting the boss’s kid. Can’t imagine that clueless boy knows a pivot table from a paperclip.”
“With that last name, you’d think he’d come prepared,” another voice adds, softer but just as cutting.
“Heard Holcomb’s been staying late to double-check his work,” a woman chimes in.
“Like he doesn’t have enough on his plate without having to pick up the slack for a kid wearing our yearly salary on his wrist.”
My Rolex suddenly feels as heavy as a shackle; I resist the urge to rip it off and fling it as far away from me as I can.
If this was happening to Sophie, she would turn back, walk up to them, and say something clever and biting.
I consider it for a second, my hands curling into fists.
And then I put my head down, and shove my hands into my coat pockets, and I walk away.
Outside, the cacophony of the busy Manhattan street swallows up their voices in a roar of wind and traffic .
I try to calm myself down.
They don’t know me, they don’t know what I’m capable of.
But the sharp edge of reality cuts right through.
What am I capable of?
The answer churns in my stomach like acid: nothing.
I’m exactly what they think I am: the boss’s kid, skating by on a name I just happened to be born with, stumbling into a job I was just handed.
A charity case in a tailored suit.
Without meaning to, I picture Sophie in a Harvard lecture hall, sitting right at the front, answering questions with that quiet, confident intelligence of hers.
She thrives under pressure; I just crumble.
If she sees me the way I see myself, then no wonder she doesn’t want me.
I unlock my phone with shaking hands, desperate for some sign she doesn’t feel that way.
Her text sits at the top of my screen like a final verdict, and for a moment, I can’t even bring myself to read it.
Please, Sophie. Please just tell me you want to see me.
I open the text.
Sophie : Not feeling great, sorry.
Let’s talk soon.
Fat droplets of rain splash onto the screen, blurring out her words.