17 Seb
Seb
My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the coffee table across from the couch where Roxie and I had fallen asleep.
But then it vibrated again. And again.
I twisted toward the edge of the couch, careful not to wake Roxie as I grabbed the phone.
Dad.
The name glared at me, lit up with three missed calls and a new text message.
Dad:Family breakfast. Your mother will be here. Don’t be late.
I stared at it a second longer before quickly sliding off the couch, pulling on yesterday’s linen button-down, and tiptoeing toward the door.
Leave it to my father to let me know last minute about a family gathering (something that rarely ever happened), expecting I would be there.
Of fucking course. I couldn’t wait for the day when I could stand on my own rather than being at his beck and call. When I could tell him what to do.
I glanced back over my shoulder just before I slipped out.
Roxie was still asleep, half-wrapped in the blanket we’d dragged down from the back of the couch; her cheek pressed into the pillow I’d abandoned. One arm was flung over where I’d just been lying moments ago.
She looked so peaceful and unburdened. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back onto that too-small couch and waste the rest of the long weekend with her in my arms.
But I couldn’t ignore a call from my father, no matter how much I wanted to. I’d learned the hard way that he would get his way in the end. He always did.
So now I was forced to leave her lying there looking nothing short of perfect for a job that felt like it was sucking the soul out of me.
Forcing me to fit myself into a box that I was never meant to fit in.
Rather than letting me show up exactly as myself so I could elevate the company to something better.
I hesitated in the doorway for one more second, letting my eyes memorize everything—the way the early light touched her hair, the soft curve of her mouth, as if she were smiling in her sleep.
I’d spent the better part of the last decade trying to forget her.
Now, with one night, she was all I could think about.
I tore my eyes away before I changed my mind and crawled back under the blanket with her, letting the world keep spinning without me.
But that wasn’t reality. I couldn’t see any paper to leave her a note, so I crept back to the record player and put the needle back on her favorite album and left.
Outside, the air was cool, the scent of the bay still lingering in the breeze.
I quietly made my way through the house and up to the guest room, where I made quick work of packing up my belongings.
Within five minutes, I was behind the wheel of my car and backing out of the driveway, to head back to the city.
I let the Hamptons fall away behind me as I tapped on my father’s name on the screen of my car to dial his number.
It rang once. Twice.
“Sebastian,” my father’s voice snapped into my ear. “Did you get my message?”
“Yeah,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair in hopes I could make it look halfway presentable after the night I’d had. There was very little chance I would make it back to my apartment in time for a shower. “I saw it.”
“Well?” he demanded. “You’ll be on time, won’t you?”
“I’m on my way.”
A brief pause and then, “Your mother is going to make an appearance this time. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I could say the same to you,” I said under my breath without thinking.
“What was that?” he snapped back.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, shifting gears and accelerating down the back road that would take me to the highway.
The sun was just beginning to rise behind me, and for a split second, I let myself enjoy the memory of yesterday.
Before I had to leave. Before the reminder that no matter how far I ran, I was always one ring away from being dragged back by my father.
With no control over my own life. Unable to enjoy the things and the people around me.
“Good,” my father said. “Because we have bigger issues than your attitude.”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. “What now?”
“Spiria,” he said, the word coming out cold. “They’re preparing to walk.”
I blinked, tightening my grip on the wheel.
Spiria was my newest client. They were a small designer in Milan that I’d found and managed to work out a deal that would have Whittaker Holdings acquire them.
It wasn’t a flashy closing or big number like some of my other deals, but they were an important cog in my father’s plans.
They were one of the newest upcoming couture designers that he had his eye on, identifying them as a potentially dangerous threat if left to their own devices.
Because that was what Whittaker Holdings did.
It sucked up new talent like a vacuum, only to cut costs and budget all in the effort of reducing risk and padding the bottom dollar.
It was a capitalist machine at its finest. I would be lying if I said the entire purpose of the company didn’t bother me. But what was I to do about it?
“What are you talking about? The deal was locked in. Their legal signed off last week.”
“Apparently, your team in Milan fumbled the follow-up call. They raised concerns about due diligence and financial transparency. Spiria’s team is panicking. We’ll lose them by Friday if you don’t fix it.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from reminding him that the legal and financial teams in Milan were not “my” team. Technically, they were his. All I had to do was hand the deal off to them, and they handled the rest. But there was no chance I was going to get that across to my father.
“Jesus,” I muttered, leaning my head back against the headrest. “What the hell even happened on that call? It was a done deal.”
“I have no fucking clue, Sebastian. But you didn’t get ahead of it. So this is your mess to clean up.”
Of course. Classic. In his mind, if something went wrong, it had to be my fault. Never anyone else’s or the company’s. Never the old-school legal team he refused to revamp and claimed could handle anything. And certainly not his.
He was testing me. Every day. Every hour. Like I hadn’t earned my place with the company. And I was questioning whether I ever would.
“I’ll give the head designer a call,” I said, jaw clenched. “If I need to, I can schedule a call and smooth things over.”
“You’ll do more than that,” he snapped. “You’ll fix this personally. If this deal falls through, it’s not just egg on your face. It’s a black mark on the entire company.”
I stared at the road ahead, fighting the urge to roll my eyes as the city skyline came into view. “It won’t fall through.”
“It better not,” he said. “Because if it does, you can consider this your last shot.”
I went still. Suddenly every ounce of restraint left my body. My mouth was moving before I could think better of the words slipping past my lips. Because I was tired of the threats and accusations, with no end in sight.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” my father said, voice cool as ice, “you’ve had enough opportunities to prove you’re actually worthy of your position in this company.
You’re not some wide-eyed intern anymore trying to impress me with your flair and instincts.
You want a seat at the table? You want the business that’s been built for generations waiting for you to inherit it?
” He paused. “Then prove it. You save this deal, or you’re out. ”
“You said the same thing about closing the Zurich investors,” I snapped back. “You told me to close the deal weeks ago or I lose my job. I did that. I proved to you I’m serious. Now you’re throwing another ultimatum at me. When’s it going to end, Dad?”
“When you stop needing ultimatums to act like a Whittaker,” he said, voice sharp enough to slice skin. “You want to be treated like an equal? Earn it. Until then, I’ll keep reminding you what’s at stake.”
“And what is at stake?” I bit out. “The job I’ve already been doing for three years? The equity I’ve earned with every successful pitch and closed acquisition while you sit back and bark orders from your goddamn house in Connecticut like it makes you some kind of genius?”
Silence.
I could practically feel him bristling on the other end.
“You’re emotional,” he said finally, like that was the worst imaginable sin I could commit. “That’s your problem. Always has been.”
No. My problem was that I gave a damn. About more than numbers and legacy and image and buying up everything in sight.
I cared about people. The people behind these companies we were taking.
About the creative vision we crushed under our corporate thumb.
About the woman I’d just left asleep on a couch in the Hamptons.
My grip tightened on the wheel until my knuckles went white. “Is that all?”
“For now,” he said. “But don’t be late to breakfast. And shave, for God’s sake. Your mother deserves that.”
But before I could snap back about what he knew was best for my mother, because he’d never put her first a day in his life, the line went dead.
I let out a long breath and crept over the bridge into Manhattan, the skyline sharpening against the early morning haze like teeth.
The streets were still half-asleep, vendors unfolding carts and cracking open crates of croissants and oranges, the scent of bagels drifting from delis already bustling with regulars.
A taxi blared its horn at a biker coasting through a red light like it was nothing.
A woman in stilettos was crying on a bench outside a club, her mascara running down one cheek while she yelled into her phone about some guy named Tyler.
This city was never quiet. Not even at half past six in the morning on a holiday Monday.
It breathed and buzzed and rattled in its rhythm.
And as much as I hated what waited for me—white tablecloths and silver spoons and sharp-edged conversations with my father—there was something about slipping back into Manhattan that grounded me.