Break Points and Face Offs (East Coast Matches #3)

1. Priestley

PRIESTLEY

I’ve become far too accustomed to campus life. Surrounded by ivy-covered buildings and the stink of old books, I’ve let myself become comfortable and sheltered.

The grassy vistas and all that space up at Princeton will soon be entirely replaced by … this. People rushing by at a maddening speed. Eyes glued to their phones, or else shouting into them. Skyscrapers a thousand feet high.

This is my world, the one I’ve always been destined for. The fast-paced, cut-throat epicenter of finance.

Wall Street.

I take a deep breath and adjust my tie before climbing out of the cab. I’m almost mowed down the second my foot hits the sidewalk by a passing bike.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders as I enter the glass-walled entrance of the Rosenthal Asset Management building.

On rare breaks from school when I was a child, I would spend most of my time here, trying not to get under Father’s feet, being spoiled by his secretary with candy bars and juice boxes.

Tucked away in the copy machine room with a good book, or sitting quietly in the corner of a meeting room, taking mental notes in preparation for the day this would all be mine.

After riding the elevator up to the fifty-sixth floor, I arrive at my father’s executive office. There’s a new young man sitting behind reception—probably an intern, by the nervous look on his face and the way he keeps readjusting pens and Post-it Notes as if trying to appear busy.

His head snaps toward me the second he sees me arrive, but I can tell by his expression he doesn’t know who I am. Annoying.

“Good morning, welcome to Rosenthal—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. I don’t have time for the spiel. “I have a meeting with my father.”

His eyes go comically wide. “Your f—”

“Mr. Rosenthal,” I confirm.

He looks down at the same type of appointment book my father’s old receptionist—Marjorie—used to scrawl in when I was a child.

That heavy book was so interesting to me back then.

I can’t believe Father still manages his schedule on paper.

That will all change once I’m in charge.

Everything will be electronic—obviously. And that’s just the start.

“Priestley,” the new receptionist begins before stopping himself, perhaps realizing he’s being far too familiar. “Mr. Rosenthal, sir,” he adds, turning pale.

“Is my father ready to see me?” I offer, seeing as the poor guy has gotten himself all tongue-tied. He may be incompetent, but I’m sure he gets enough criticism from my father.

“Um, let me just give him a call, if you wouldn’t mind …”

He gestures to the waiting room.

The chairs and coffee table are dated—throwbacks from the ‘80s. Father’s lucky he’s the best and that people trust the Rosenthal name.

His success certainly isn’t due to innovation or anything remotely cutting edge.

He hires people from old families and with trusted backgrounds, preferably Princeton men.

I’ve heard him audibly scoff at the concept of up-and-coming talent emerging anywhere other than the halls of the Ivy League.

I only hope it won’t take too long for him to listen to me when I start work here. That he’ll let me help him drag this place kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.

I peruse the latest issue of Time Magazine while I wait.

The waiting room is deathly silent. I can hear the receptionist’s chair squeaking every time he moves.

I look up from my magazine a couple of times to catch him staring at me before pretending he was looking at something on the wall and looking away.

I briefly consider the possibility that I have something on my face and try to check discreetly in the reflection of the glass table, ignoring the potpourri.

The door to my father’s office swings open.

Two men come out, laughing heartily. Father follows closely behind.

A cold sweat starts to bead on the back of my neck.

I take a deep breath before standing, smoothing my damp palms down my pants.

I’m wearing my best suit—the one Father had tailored for me on Saville Row—and I had a manicure yesterday afternoon in preparation for my father’s critical gaze.

But the second I see him, I might as well be eight years old again on Christmas morning, dressed in my pajamas, being asked why I’m awake already.

Father doesn’t spot me until he’s leading the men through the reception area. His gaze lands on mine. I make sure I’m standing up straight, my shoulders squared and my jaw set—the confident demeanor of a man in charge. He nods.

“Ah, gentleman, this is my son, Priestley.”

Father introduces us, but I already know who they are.

I’ve made it my mission to memorize the name and face of every business associate and country club member Father’s ever introduced me to.

Where possible, I also memorize important facts and details about them, like the names of grown-up children in college or spouses’ names and occupations.

Most of my father’s business associates are men on their third trophy wife with multiple grown children housed anywhere from prison on drugs charges to the U.S. Senate.

I make sure these men understand that I already knew who they were the second I saw them.

“Mr. Anderson, how is Laura enjoying Sarah Lawrence?”

His eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise.

“She’s enjoying her classes,” he says, smiling, his cheeks pink as he lights up.

People like to feel special. I can see Father’s approval when his associates are impressed.

One the clients have left, Father puts a hand between my shoulder blades and leads me into the office.

“Take a seat, Priestley. Tell me about school.”

I take a seat in front of Father’s desk and smooth my hands over my clothes again, making sure to sit up straight. He isn’t watching me, not yet. He pours himself a glass of water from a carafe and offers one to me.

I thank him, taking a sip of water before I answer his question.

“It’s going well. I’m officially enrolled on Princeton’s Master of Finance program.”

“Excellent,” he says before taking his own seat behind the desk.

“I look forward to spending my summer here,” I add.

My heart thrums as I await his response.

The internship Father awards to a first year Princeton finance student is legendary.

It is the most coveted internship in the finance world: a summer program guaranteeing success to one lucky recipient.

It has been the starting block for some of the world’s most successful financial advisors.

And this year, it will be mine. My grad degree is a mere formality.

I have been in training for this job since I was ten years old.

He clears his throat and finally fixes me in his gaze.

His eyes roam my entire face before moving down to my shirt, checking that my tie is straight.

I remain still, reminding myself that the fear I have of stains every time he appraises me is just paranoia.

I would never allow myself to step into this office with so much as a smudge on my clothing.

I once entered one of these meetings with a tiny bruise on my cheek—thanks to Nathan being an idiot during tennis practice—and Father acted like I’d shown up with a black eye and a criminal record.

He leans back in his chair. “I hope you understand that this internship is for the best student in the class.”

I nod. “Of course, Father. That will be me.”

His lips quirk in approval. My whole body hums with relief.

“I will not be accused of nepotism.” He says the word like it tastes bad and he resents having it in his mouth.

I want to assure him that nothing about my success is due to nepotism. I have worked my ass off to get here, starting from my childhood notes in the boardroom to memorizing tiny details about clients’ lives. Not to mention all the hard work I’ve put in at Princeton.

When my teammates were out getting drunk, laid or both, I stayed at the frat house or the library, studying and getting a head start on my assignments.

I accepted unpopularity when I squashed their fun to make sure our tennis team became champions, when I had to ride sloppy vice presidents to hand in financial reports on time, or chide careless pledges for pranking rival fraternity houses.

I have spent the past god-knows-how-many years of my life training for this job.

There is no one on earth more well-suited or deserving than me.

I want to remind him of all of this, but I don’t.

Father gives one brisk nod before speaking again. “Because Priestley, if you do not finish top of your class this year, you will not be awarded the internship. And you will not be guaranteed a position at Rosenthal Asset Management after graduation. Understood?”

My blood runs cold. Keeping my emotions carefully trained, I brush a spec of lint from the lapel of my suit jacket.

“Perfectly, sir.”

I manage to stay cool through the rest of the meeting, maintaining the smile on my face as I say goodbye to my father and nod to the receptionist on my way out. My palms are sweating when I make it onto the street and hail a cab.

Of course I will earn this internship. Of course I will come out top of my class. I always do.

I try to push down the bitter thoughts that threaten to surface. Haven’t I already proven myself enough? Top of every class in prep school? Top of every class at Princeton, for god’s sake! President of the most prestigious fraternity on campus. Captain of a championship-winning tennis team.

I square my shoulders and clear my mind. I don’t have time to be whining about facts—time that could be better spent getting a head start.

I’ve barely registered for the course, so I doubt any of my peers will have started on the essential reading list yet.

Most are probably students from other colleges, perhaps international students arriving shortly before classes start.

None of them will know the library as intimately as I do.

I could go and get the necessary books out first and bone up on my professor.

Nothing wrong with a little sucking up in the right places.

A proverbial apple on the teacher’s desk.

I feel a little better as I watch a yellow cab slow beside me on the sidewalk. I already have a plan to crush the competition.