Chapter 8 Caleb #2
On Monday, I went to the Royal Bank of Canada to see if I could acquire a loan. Sitting across from the bank manager, I said, “I would like to get a loan to buy out my business partner.” My voice sounded confident, even though my chest felt tight.
“Of course, sir,” he replied. “We would need to see a couple of documents—the standard procedure, you understand—your business plan, credit score, and personal bank statements.”
It hit me then that I hadn’t thought this through. My father hadn’t required any of those things to finance my venture. He’d simply written cheques and made phone calls. “Well, I don’t have any of those,” I said. “What’s my next best option?”
The bank manager paused. “Do you have a guarantor who could vouch for you?”
I sighed. This was exactly the kind of bind I was trying to escape. “You see, the thing is, my father is Randall Evans, and I—”
“My apologies, Mr. Evans. Of course.” His tone shifted instantly—deferential and efficient. He turned to his computer. “I’d forgotten for a moment that your father had another son.”
Heat flooded my face. I stood up and walked out of the bank without another word. As I glanced back, I caught the perplexed look on his face. This was going to be much harder than I’d imagined.
Later that week, I took a famous actress on a date to a low-key restaurant in a not-so-charming part of town. She hated it. She barely hid her disgust before demanding I take her home immediately. The rejection barely registered—I was numb by then.
Later, sitting alone in the Four Seasons Hotel bar, I reflected on everything I’d learned about myself, my friends, and the women I dated. For once, the alcohol didn’t blur the edges of my thoughts. It sharpened them.
An elegant woman, a few years older than me, slid onto the stool beside me. After a moment, I recognized her from visits to my parents’ estate—Ms. Meryl Hutchins, personal assistant to Mr. Leopold, the CEO of Scotia Bank.
We made small talk. Then I told her I wanted to start my own business, free from my father’s influence. I watched her face closely, hoping—stupidly—for encouragement.
“Honey,” she said, “you’re in your late twenties, and you’re still partying like you’re a teenager.
That doesn’t convince any bank, in any part of the world, to invest in you.
” She reached across the table and ran a finger down my chest. “I do have a merger proposal that might interest you, though.” A lock of strawberry-blonde hair fell across her eye.
“I’d love to walk you through the details back at my place, after you buy me a drink. ”
Shame and anger churned together in my gut. I drained my whisky, slipped a hundred-dollar bill under the glass, and left in a hurry—without her.
The successful man-about-town image I thought I projected was shattered. The world saw what it wanted to see—on Twitter, Instagram, in gossip columns—and they believed it. Worse, I was starting to believe it too.
The conversation I’d overheard between my brother and sister over the weekend still made my stomach knot.
I didn’t want them to despise me. I loved them, even if I didn’t know how to show it.
I’d always assumed things would change as we got older.
They never did. They only grew more strained, more uncomfortable.
I couldn’t even blame my mother. Her obvious favouritism had planted the resentment between us, but it could have been avoided if I’d taken responsibility for myself.
Even the house staff seemed to loathe me. Whippersnapper. I’d overheard them say it while preparing lunch. They laughed at my expense. Was I really that unbearable?
I wondered if Martina and Taylor thought the same.
They were the husband-and-wife team who lived in my penthouse and took care of everything.
When I got home, I stepped out of the elevator and headed for the kitchen, hoping—desperately—for some reassurance.
Instead, I stopped short at the sound of Martina crying.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” she sobbed.
I peeked into the room and saw Taylor rubbing her back, murmuring to her softly. He was my driver and bodyguard. Someone who’d seen every side of me.
“Caleb is just horrible,” Martina said through tears. “He treats us like doormats. He doesn’t think about anyone but himself. He didn’t even pretend to care after learning I’d lost the baby. He went right back to gallivanting around the clubs in Vancouver as usual.”
The words hollowed me out. Taylor had mentioned the baby when he picked me up from the airport. I remembered the moment vividly—and how I’d said nothing. I’d been too wrapped up in my father’s ultimatum, too distracted to offer even basic compassion.
“I swear if we didn’t need this job,” Martina continued, sniffing, “I would have told him what a selfish son-of-a-bitch he is and—”
I backed away before I could hear the rest.
Nyah was right. Completely, brutally right.
Her words replayed in my head like a slap. I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears, as if I could physically block them out. Everything I’d heard—from my siblings, my friends, the women I dated—looped endlessly, crushing in their consistency.
I collapsed onto my bed and passed out, only to be jolted awake by a nightmare. I was being pushed off a cliff into darkness. Hands shoved me forward as sardonic laughter echoed around me—mocking, cruel. I recognized the faces: my brother, my sister, and her husband, Martina and Taylor.
And then Nyah.