4 Seb
Seb
“Get up.”
The voice was like a horrible alarm clock, cutting through my hangover. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t have to. Only one person in my life spoke to me like that.
“Sebastian.” A hand shoved my shoulder. Firmer this time.
My head pounded as I pried my eyes open.
The world came into focus in fragments: gilded crown molding framing high ceilings, antique mirrors catching pale morning lights, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the far wall, draped in heavy silk curtains that I hadn’t bothered to pull shut last night in my drunken state.
Hell, judging by the shirt I was still wearing and the tie haphazardly loosened around my neck, I’d forgotten to do a lot last night.
Beyond those windows, Central Park stretched out like a painting—mist curling above the treetops, Manhattan glittering beyond.
My father had bought this place for my mother before their divorce. It was an apology gift after the second mistress. After the third mistress, he got her a house in the Hamptons, and that was where she’d been ever since.
I sat up slowly, running a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of stubble I hadn’t bothered shaving last night. Between the business meetings and extracurricular parties, I had to attend this week, it had slipped my mind entirely.
“Christ,” I muttered.
“Are you listening?” My father’s voice again, clipped and controlled like always.
He stood at the foot of the bed, wearing his signature navy suit, the same one he wore on the cover of Time magazine when he was named person of the year for his achievements.
He’d likely taken a detour to my apartment on his way to the office.
Whittaker Holdings’ patriarch. And, unfortunately, my father.
“I’m listening,” I said hoarsely. “Maybe not awake yet, but I’m listening.”
He glanced around the room, eyes skimming over the empty bottle of scotch on the dresser, the leather chair in the corner of the bedroom draped with someone’s designer coat. Hannah? Maria? Whatever her name was, she must have left it behind.
“Did you forget about the meeting this morning?” he asked coolly.
I hesitated to ask what meeting he was talking about, pushing off being on the receiving end of Edward Whittaker’s famous glare for a little while longer.
The last I checked, my only meeting for the day was with the head of marketing regarding the newest jewelry storefront being opened in Tokyo by one of our subsidiaries.
I figured I’d take the call after my gym session on the way to The Nest, the private members’ club my family belonged to.
My responsibilities at the family’s company were superficial at best. As expected, I joined Whittaker Holdings after graduating from Princeton nearly six years ago.
But just because I exchanged classes for meetings didn’t mean I stopped having a little fun in between.
To say my father believed I’d eventually run the company would be a lie.
If he did, he would have given me more responsibility than a glorified sales consultant, looking for new talent to add to the monster that Whittaker Holdings had become.
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the low throb behind my eyes. A black lace bra lay tangled near the towering mahogany bedroom door. Another article of clothing that Hannah (or was it Maria?) left behind.
Right.
I didn’t remember much about last night except the burn of scotch and the usual cocktail of bad decisions. Work hard, play harder—that was the Whittaker brand, wasn’t it? I’d learned from the best after all.
It was hypocritical of my father to judge me for indulging a little, really.
I crossed into the main room, leaving my father to follow.
The penthouse condo opened up in grand proportions: a sunken living area with matching tufted velvet sofas arranged beneath a chandelier older than me, some ridiculous vintage crystal thing my mother had flown in from Paris.
The walls were paneled in dark, lacquered wood, broken up by shelves lined with first-edition books I’d never read.
My mother took advantage of my father’s credit card every time he offered it instead of an actual apology. Every member of the Whittaker family had their own vice.
Thanks to my mother’s indulgences, this apartment had been featured in Architectural Digest. But despite the carefully curated paint color that was matched with the one-of-a-kind wood floors, this place still held its ghosts.
“Sebastian.” My father’s voice echoed sharper in the cavernous space. “The meeting with the Zurich investors. Nine a.m. About the new makeup brand you helped bring on. I was very clear that you needed to be there.”
“Right,” I muttered, already veering toward the kitchen where the coffee machine sat idle beside a bar cart full of half-empty liquor bottles I’d collected. It was barely past seven, and already I could feel the weight of the day closing in.
My father didn’t move from where he stood near the dining table, perfectly still like one of the marble statues in the foyer.
Eyeing me with the kind of scrutiny that would have sent his assistant scurrying for cover.
Me? I was used to it. That had always been Edward Whittaker’s style. Never give in. Make others fold.
I turned on the espresso machine, glancing at the files one of my father’s assistants had dropped off earlier in the week about potential prospects he thought would be good for the company.
I hadn’t bothered cracking them open. Even though it was my job to approve new company purchases that we made, if my father had formed an opinion on something, nothing I said would matter.
“Do me a favor,” I said as the machine hissed to life, “next time you feel the urge to play wake-up call, don’t. I’ll be at the meeting.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me in that measured, unimpressed way he had, like I was some minor inconvenience. It was the same look he’d given me most of my life. No matter what I did—what award I achieved or what game-winning play I made as a kid—nothing was ever good enough in his eyes.
I wasn’t sure why I had ever expected a different reaction from him. As if one day he’d magically become a good father that cared about anything more than his bottom dollar. Maybe then I’d finally stop being disappointed.
“Take a shower before you come into the office.” My father wrinkled up his nose. “I can still smell the scotch on you.”
He left without further comment. I held my breath until I heard the ding of the elevator in the foyer as it descended to the lobby. Sighing, I slumped as the sputtering coffee machine finished brewing.
With a father like that, who could blame me for having a little fun?
Maybe that’s why I’d opened that old email account when I’d gotten home from McGuire’s the other day. Some fucked-up form of entertainment that was easily classifiable as self-inflicted torture.
Seeing Roxie King again after all these years felt like a carrot being dangled in front of my face.
When we were kids, Roxie was the only person that understood what I was going through behind closed doors.
She’d listened when I told her about the newest fucked-up experience I’d had as the heir to the Whittaker fortune.
She was the only person in my life that would listen without judgment and knew exactly what I needed to feel better—distraction. Somehow, Roxie always knew that all I wanted was to vent to someone that would listen and then do whatever I could to forget it all entirely after I got it out.
There hadn’t been anyone else since her that I felt comfortable opening up to. Not even James knew the extent of my family dynamics. He assumed my parents weren’t as involved in my life as they should be, too caught up in the family business and society life. Which was only part of the truth.
The message to Roxie had been sitting in my drafts folder since last Thursday night. Written sometime around three in the morning when I’d gotten back, my tie already loose, a night cap in one hand, bad ideas in the other. It took me nearly a week to actually hit send.
Long time, King.
There was a slim chance she’d even seen it.
A slimmer chance she’d answer. It had taken me three guesses of my password for my old email account from when we were kids before I got in.
It was like traveling back in time to see the various unopened emails from wannabe friends of the past and marketing emails from companies I’d subscribed to.
I’d opened a blank email and selected Roxie’s predictably sensible email address before spending nearly an hour coming up with the perfect message.
Long after I’d drained every ounce of my scotch, I’d settled on those three words.
But some common sense that still remained in those early hours stopped me from pressing the send button straight away.
It was only the fact that I was still thinking about it nearly a week later that finally made me do it.
Some time passed without a response, which wasn’t a surprise. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me hoping for one.
So when I grabbed my cup of coffee and headed toward the bathroom, I opened my old email account expecting to still find no response from Roxie and nearly dropped my mug when I saw one sitting at the top of my inbox.
For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My finger hovered just above the screen, as if opening it would make it disappear entirely.
Setting my coffee down on the marble bathroom counter, I leaned back against the wall and tapped the email open.
Her reply wasn’t long. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was entirely Roxie.
Re: Long time, King
From: Roxanne-Kirsten-King@
To: princewhittaker98@
Doors are so overrated.
That was it. No greeting. No sign-off. But somehow, I could hear her voice in it after all these years. That cool, collected tone she’d always used when we were kids. A little unimpressed, a little amused. Like I wasn’t quite as clever as I thought I was.
I read it twice. Three times.
When I glanced at myself in the mirror, a grin nearly stretched from ear to ear. Those four words cut through the headache and the unexpected drop-in from my father. Somehow still managing to make my life exponentially better like she always had.
The initial thrill of her response quickly faded, replaced by a bitter taste of regret that settled in my stomach like a stone.
The grin faltered as quickly as it came.
That bitter edge crept in, cold and familiar.
I hadn’t thought about that night in years—not really.
Not in the kind of way it knocked the wind out of me like it did now.
I’d had a plan once.
There were so many late nights spent together, escaping suffocating parties our parents put on full of people we didn’t care about, people who only saw us as a Whittaker or a King.
Heirs to fortunes and not young kids with aspirations to do something different with their lives.
A few stolen kisses as we passed a bottle of champagne back and forth, giggling about how her grandfather’s toupee was crooked.
I never touched her in front of anyone. Never said it out loud. But I’d decided the summer after our senior year that I was going to change that.
One night in particular was stuck in my head like it was frozen in time.
The ocean waves lapped gently on the shore, just the two of us sprawled out on a blanket I’d found in the boathouse of my parents’ place.
Roxie sat beside me, bare legs stretched out in front of her, toes digging into the sand.
Her head tilted back, eyes closed, like she didn’t have a single thing to prove to anyone.
I remember watching her that night and everything snapping into place.
It wasn’t some grand realization. It was quiet. Simple.
I wanted her to be mine.
I’d even taken the time to rehearse what I’d say to her when I finally worked up enough courage. I wasn’t normally the type to get nervous.
But that night my stomach was tied in knots at the idea of taking the risk of changing the very fabric that made up our friendship.
The only problem was, I never got the chance to ask.
Time had taken the sting away from the memory, to warn me away from reaching back out to her. But a few too many glasses of scotch during my night out with James had blurred all my senses after she’d waltzed back into my life.
I scrubbed a hand down my face, trying to shake the weight of her away.
I never stood a chance when it came to Roxie King, no matter what had happened between us. I quickly hit the button to reply. Fingers flying over my screen before I could think better of it.
Re: Long time, King
From: princewhittaker98@
To: Roxanne-Kirsten-King@
Figured as much. Some things never change. See you soon, King.