Roxie
The drive to Greenwich always felt like stepping back in time. Like every mile out of the city stripped away the person I’d built myself into, until all that remained was the girl who used to sit stiff-backed at the King family dinner table, trying not to say the wrong thing.
Even though my grandfather had taken away my inheritance, that didn’t mean my parents still didn’t want me to show up every Sunday to pretend like everything was as it was when I was still under their roof. I think it was mostly to make sure I was alive and not living on the streets of New York.
Barely anything had changed since I was a kid. The gates still creaked the same when they opened. The hedges were still manicured to within an inch of their lives. And the front door—glossy black with a lion’s-head knocker—still made my stomach twist every time I stood in front of it.
“Hi, Nana.” I hugged her warmly, careful not to get foundation on her cashmere.
Kirsten King carried herself with regal grace. I sometimes questioned how she could have married my gruff and brooding grandfather, but then I remembered it was a strategic alliance between their families.
She was everything I aspired to be—an art connoisseur, a feisty enigma that knew her way around a tennis court, and a woman who could work a room.
As my number one supporter, she proudly displayed my framed photographs, telling her friends they were her granddaughter’s work.
She didn’t approve when my grandfather cut me off, but there was nothing she could do.
“You look delightful. Where did you find this one?” My grandmother held me at arm’s length to admire my outfit of choice for the occasion.
Only a new piece from my favorite designer that I found on a discount rack could get me through dinner with my family.
I wore the confidence my outfits gave me like a suit of armor against the judgment that was sure to be passed across the table during the meal.
“A little vintage store near my apartment. I thought I was dreaming when I saw it on the rack.”
Kirsten, who had an infallible superpower of predicting future trends, was a fashion icon known for wearing styles months before anyone else.
I spent my childhood years documenting and organizing my favorite outfits of hers.
My career choice, which diverged from family expectations, was influenced by her unique perspective.
It would be impossible to endure these family dinners if she wasn’t there.
“Ah, well. It’s very you, darling,” Kirsten said approvingly, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from my sleeve before ushering me inside. “Come on. Your mother’s fussing over the flowers and your father’s already two whiskeys in.”
The marble foyer of my childhood home gleamed just as brightly as it always had beneath my boots as we walked through the house.
There was the distant sound of ice clinking in crystal, and the murmur of classical music seeped through the walls.
A framed oil painting of the family yacht still hung above the console table in the hallway, staring me down like it was just as disappointed as my parents for abandoning it.
It was all so pretentious.
“You’re late,” came a voice from the hallway.
My brother, Winn, appeared in the doorway, tie already loosened and shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Even outside the office, he stayed in uniform, just in case he suddenly had business to attend to.
His grin was half-amused, half-exasperated.
“I thought for sure you wouldn’t show up today. ”
“You say that every time,” I replied, reaching out to wrap my older brother in a hug. “And as tempting as it was to not come here, I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like that.”
He snorted. “Appreciate the sacrifice, as always. I already had to listen to Dad’s rundown of the probate litigation case he’s definitely still mad about losing in ’98.”
“That’s what you get for joining the family firm,” I said, stepping back. “You volunteered as tribute.”
Winn rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure I’d say I volunteered.”
We rounded the corner into the formal living room, where my mother was rearranging a vase with her signature white hydrangeas, and my father was halfway into his glass of Pappy Van Winkle, eyes flickering between us and his phone screen.
“Roxie, sweetheart,” my mother said, straightening and offering me a quick air kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely. Do you think the hydrangeas look flat this week? Maybe I should’ve gone with roses instead.”
“You said that last week,” I replied as I accepted the glass of wine my grandmother offered me.
“Because it was true then, too,” she muttered, tugging at a petal like it personally offended her.
My father looked up and gave me a nod. “Glad you made it.”
Glad I made it … as if I had a choice.
The five of us were barely settled into our respective seats at the dining table when the man himself entered—the patriarch, the reason behind my severed trust fund and very complicated issues with authority. Franklin King.
“Roxanne.” His voice, deep and clipped, echoed slightly against the lofty ceilings. “You’re late.”
His comment held none of the joking nature that my brother’s had.
“You’re observant,” I said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
My mother shot me a warning look, but she knew it was no use.
I wasn’t afraid to speak my mind at family gatherings anymore.
Since grandfather cut me off, I had nothing to lose.
I’d already suffered the worst thing they could have ever done to me.
My grandfather only raised a brow and sat at the head of the table like he was preparing for a board meeting, not a family dinner.
It was a role he had always played well—the CEO of our lives.
Everyone launched into their usual opening-act small talk about work, weather, and whatever society scandal my mother was feigning shock over this week.
Kirsten kept the conversation with me light, asking about my job at the gallery and latest photography commissions.
It was a welcome lifeline in an otherwise suffocating room.
“Your brother told me you’ve had two rather big sales recently?” Kirsten asked me.
I nodded as I took a sip of my wine. “I did. You would have loved the second one. It was a woman who had found out her husband was cheating and she came in to spend his money.”
Kirsten raised a hand to cover the laughter that was starting to shake her shoulders.
“Will those sales pay your rent?” my mother inquired politely as she tuned in to our conversation.
“They will,” I replied stiffly.
“So that means you should be able to come to dinner next week as well since you won’t have to prioritize work.” My mother said it like a matter of fact, making the decision for me instead of allowing me to control my own life.
“What a joy,” I mumbled under my breath. Winn snorted softly next to me as he fought to keep his face straight. He slipped his hand under the table to squeeze mine.
When I was a kid, still trying my best to play by the rules, I’d often have Sebastian tag along.
We’d share conspiratorial looks and giggle behind our glasses of lemonade as my mother would complain about how the head of the ladies’ luncheon at the country club served turkey instead of ham sandwiches that week.
How horrifying.
Somehow, today set a new record, with my grandfather waiting until the third course before setting his sights on me. “So,” Franklin said, setting his glass down with a quiet thunk. “Are you still living in that dump you call an apartment in the West Village? With that girl, Hannah?”
“It’s Hallie,” I corrected, teeth clenched. “And yes, still there. Shocking, I know—some people survive without marble countertops and private elevators.”
Kirsten gave a soft warning clink of her fork against her plate. I appreciated the subtle attempt to divert the current, but we were already too deep. This same explosion happened every other week. Some more violent than others.
My grandfather exhaled as if my response had confirmed every disappointment he held about me. “You had every opportunity. Every resource. And you traded that in for what? Street photography and some rent-controlled shoebox?”
I could feel Winn shift beside me, his elbow barely grazing mine in a silent message. Let it go.
But that had never been my strong suit.
“I traded it in for a life I wanted,” I said, folding my napkin in half with surgical precision, hoping that it would help prevent me from blowing up. “Not one that was laid out for me like a contract I never got to read and agree to.”
Disapproval, amusement, or a combination of the two flickered across Franklin’s face. “And how’s that working out for you? Still scrounging for clients? I assume this so-called gallery of yours is paying you pennies on the dollar.”
Before I could open my mouth, my mother jumped in. “Frank, please,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Not today.”
It was a sorry attempt at defiance against the formidable head of the King household. It still surprised me how spineless this family was, even after all these years. But at least she tried.
“Why not today?” he asked, turning to face her, then back to me. “She chose this path. She should be able to sit at this table and stand up for it. Own her decisions with pride.”
He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did. Just like he had that day.
The memory surged back before I could stop it—me, not quite eighteen, trembling in front of my grandfather’s desk as he’d laid out his ultimatum like a contract termination.
The sneering disappointment. The dismissive wave.
And next to him, silent and unreadable in his signature navy suit, Sebastian Whittaker.
My best friend. The boy who had known every version of me.
And the boy who had sold me out to Franklin King.