22 Seb
Seb
The bass was so loud I could feel it in my teeth.
Bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in this rooftop bar, gyrating and moving to the sound of the music.
I had no idea whose party this was but had seen some people that ran in the same social circles as me posting about it on social media.
It sounded like a far better option than drinking through another bottle of scotch in my penthouse by myself until I couldn’t see straight and any memory of Roxie was too fuzzy for me to focus on.
The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the acrid bite of expensive cigars that part of me wanted to seek out so I could acquire one for myself.
A waiter slid past with a tray of champagne flutes, and I snagged two without asking.
The first went down in a few gulps, the second I cradled just long enough to pretend I wasn’t desperate as I worked through the crowd, looking for the perfect place to perch for the night.
Some girl in sequins appeared out of nowhere and dropped herself over my arm, laughing at something I didn’t hear her say. I let her talk, let her press closer, let her think she was my distraction for the night. But every time she touched me, it wasn’t her I felt—it was Roxie.
Always Roxie.
I drained the second glass and excused myself from the sequined girl, ignoring the look of disappointment on her face as I went on a search for something stronger.
The DJ cut into another bass-heavy track, the kind that rattled your ribs, and for a few seconds I could almost trick myself into believing the pounding in my chest was just the music, not the slow, stupid ache I’d been carrying for weeks.
The one I spent most of my time trying to dull without much success.
I managed to flag a bartender down to order myself a glass of scotch despite the absurd amount of people pressing in close.
As I waited, someone I vaguely recognized slid a line across a low table in the corner.
He caught my eye and grinned like he was offering me a winning lottery ticket.
I didn’t even bother pretending to think about it as I shook my head.
Even in the middle of burning my life down, there were still boundaries I wouldn’t cross.
By the time I got my glass of scotch, my appetite for chaos had waned. No longer did the human desire for gluttony and debauchery seem like such a good idea anymore. I downed the drink and tossed down a bill that would cover it and then some.
I stumbled out onto the street; the city light was starting to bleed into morning as I flagged down a car. Somehow, I managed to recite the correct address to the driver before I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes.
The past six weeks had felt stagnant. Every day that passed since Roxie’s gallery event, I became less and less focused on work and more and more focused on how I could dull my mind enough to stop thinking about her.
I still hadn’t found the answer.
As if on autopilot, I walked into my building, pressed the button for the penthouse, and eventually found myself inside my apartment.
The sun was now high enough to spill light through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
My place looked worse than I remembered leaving it last night.
There were empty bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.
Takeout containers cluttered the coffee table and kitchen island.
Various suit jackets and crumpled dress shirts were long forgotten on the back of the couch.
I kicked my shoes off, let them land wherever they wanted, and headed for the kitchen. Another drink. Just enough to take the edge off before I crashed for a few hours and then started the whole thing again.
But just as I picked up a glass to inspect if it was clean, the lock I’d just latched on the front door clicked.
I froze. My head wasn’t clear enough to process that I might be dealing with an intruder, but that wasn’t likely seeing as you had to get past the entire building’s staff to even get in the elevator.
The calm, low voice, laced with the authority I knew so well finally broke the silence, and everything clicked into place.
“Sebastian.”
My father stepped into the main living space, his eyes scanning the explosion of trash that seemed to have taken over every square inch of my place.
His mouth pursed, and I knew before he even opened his mouth that today’s visit would not be a good one.
When he finally settled his gaze on mine, I nearly cowered.
It was the look I used to get as a kid when I hadn’t fully been living up to proper expectations.
It made my stomach knot even before he said a word.
“You’re not going into the office today,” he said. It was a mixture of an observation and an order.
I dropped the glass I’d planned to use into the sink, deeming it dirty before going to the fridge to grab a bottle of water instead. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“I’m not sure you’ve been planning much of anything this past month,” he said, stepping closer.
“I checked with my assistant. Almost all your meetings have been rescheduled, multiple times. All of your projects have stalled. I don’t think you even followed up with the Spiria team after I specifically told you to fix the situation as an immediate priority.
From the sounds of it, they are looking elsewhere now.
And no one can find you sober enough to answer a damn email. ”
I took a sip of water, letting it wash away the fuzzy coating of alcohol in my throat. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m an embarrassment to the Whittaker name? Or should we just skip the lecture entirely?”
“No,” he said, his voice clipped. “This is the part where I tell you you’re done.”
That sobered me up within a split second. “What?”
“You’re taking a leave from Whittaker Holdings. Effective immediately.”
The words landed like a punch. I laughed once. It came out sharp and humorless. “You’re firing me?”
“I’m trying to save you,” my father hissed, and for the first time in a long time, there was something almost human to his voice. The way it hitched on the final word, full of a completely different kind of pain. “Before you burn what’s left of yourself to the ground.”
I set the bottle of water down a little too hard, the sound echoing in the quiet between us. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I just did,” he fired back. “I own the company and can make whatever decision I want.”
My father’s words hung between us like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to wave away.
He didn’t shout like he normally did. He didn’t have to. His tone alone carried the finality of a slammed door.
“You think you’re helping me?” I asked, my voice low and sharp. “Taking away the one thing I’ve been working toward for years? Giving me more free time to waste away?”
He stepped closer, lips pressed tight. “Sebastian, you haven’t been working toward anything lately.
You’ve been drinking toward nothing. This—” he gestured around the disaster that was my home “—isn’t living.
And it’s not leading a company. I can’t stand by and watch you implode.
Not as your boss, and sure as hell not as your father. ”
I laughed again, but it cracked halfway out. “Great pep talk. I don’t remember the last time you’ve given me one of those. Or even acted like you cared.”
His stare didn’t soften. “I’m not here to pep-talk you. I’m here to tell you that until you pull yourself together and remember who you are, you’re off the payroll. Take that time to get clean. Or don’t. That part’s on you. I suggest starting with therapy.”
And then he left. No goodbye. Just the solid click of the door, leaving me alone in the silence that felt heavier than the hangover pounding against my skull.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway. My father had just benched me. Cut me off from my own damn life. But despite everything, all I could think about was her.
Roxie.
How disappointed she’d be with me if she saw me right now. How she’d tell me that I was meant for more than this. She always had believed in me more than anyone else in my life. But that was before I’d lost the right to her opinion for a second time.
She had made it clear just how little she cared about me now. It was pathetic how I still couldn’t get her out of my mind.
No matter how many parties I went to. How much alcohol I drank.
How many times I tried to pick someone up to take home, only to never see it through because she was still in my head.
Her voice. Her eyes. The way she used to look at me like she saw more than the party boy who knew how to have a good time.
My chest felt tight, like there was something lodged there I couldn’t cough out. I dropped down onto the couch and pulled my laptop onto my legs. I wasn’t sure what I was really doing. There was just too much noise in my head, and I desperately needed to figure out something, anything, to quiet it.
I opened a browser window out of habit, my fingers hovering over the keys. Work emails were a nonstarter since I’d already been locked out of my Whittaker Holdings account, apparently. My father worked fast.
For a moment, I considered logging into the stock trading platform I used to pass the time in college, back when making ten grand in an afternoon felt like an achievement. Now it felt like nothing, and the thought of making another reckless decision in my current state made my stomach churn.
Instead, I typed her name into a search browser, not even sure what it would spit back out at me.
The obvious things came up first—her headshot on the gallery website, a few recent news articles covering the event that I’d tried to crash and how much of a success it had ended up being, and a photo from a charity auction her job hosted back in April where she’d worn an emerald dress that had made her tan skin pop and her blonde hair shine.
The hollow ache in my chest felt like an empty void.
Then, halfway down the second page of results, I saw something I didn’t recognize.
Eat the City
Curated by Hallie Woods and Roxie King
I clicked before I could stop myself. Up popped a sleek, freshly launched website with mouthwatering photos of plates I couldn’t even name. Rich colors. Perfect plating. Wineglasses catching the light. Roxie’s talent touched every square inch of those photos.
There weren’t any articles yet, but it was clear what I was looking at. Roxie and Hallie’s dream coming to life. To pursue food journalism. Together.
I swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness of my own failure mixed with a tinge of admiration for what she was doing.
She was chasing her dreams and doing it all herself.
I ran a hand over my face. I needed to do something, anything, to get these feelings whirling around inside of me out. Fumbling back onto the keyboard, I opened my email and typed her old email address in.
I knew whatever I sent to it would only bounce back, but still I stared at the blank message like it could finally be the cure I was looking for. Just to get my thoughts out, even if they never reached her, which they wouldn’t.
So I began.
Subject: I’m Sorry for Everything
From: princewhittaker98@
To: Roxanne-Kirsten-King@
Roxie,
I know you’ve blocked me so you will never read this.
But I need to get this out of my head. I’ve been drowning since the last time I saw you at the gallery and I realized that I lost sight of the person I want to be—the person you saw when you looked at me when we were kids.
I lost sight of that version of myself long before you came back into my life, maybe.
I’ve become selfish. I don’t think about how my actions affect others.
Maybe I never have done. But I’ve hurt you for a second time because of that selfishness.
I’ll never forgive myself for it and I don’t expect you to either.
But either way, I have to say how sorry I am for all the ways I failed you.
I’m sorry for being immature when we were younger and choosing revenge over speaking to you directly.
I’m sorry for forcing you to start over before you were ready and forcing you into the conversation with your grandpa all those years ago, when it should have been on your own terms. But even though I did all of those things to you, you somehow managed to come out on the other side even better, stronger, than you ever were before.
You gave me a second chance, and I managed to mess it up again.
I truly didn’t mean to hurt you by leaving that morning without explanation.
I wanted to pick things up back in the city and tried to contact you as soon as I could that day.
But I can see now how thin a line I was walking with you after everything I did in the past. I understand why even that misjudged moment from me was enough for you to change your mind back to wanting nothing to do with me.
I’ve caused you so much pain in the past. It makes sense you won’t give me the space to do it again.
And you’re right. I’ll leave you alone now.
I’m not sure what comes next for me without you in my life.
But I want you to know that no matter where I go from here, you’re the catalyst for why I want to be better.
I was too self-centered and careless to get things right this second time with you.
But just know that holding you in my arms that night in the boathouse was the happiest I’ve been since we were kids.
I saw your new website, and I wanted to say that I’m so proud of you for chasing your dreams with Hallie. You deserve that happiness, and so much more.
Maybe one day I’ll find a way back to being the man you once believed in, but you’ve always been the woman of my dreams.
Sebastian xx
A “message failed” notification appeared almost immediately at the top of my inbox, but I’d said what I needed to say. I’d spoken the truth, even if it was just into an empty server. And that was a good first step.