Seb
The smell of fresh bread, simmering tomato sauce, and the faint tang of coffee hit me the moment I stepped inside the East Side Food Bank.
The shelves held a full stock of almost anything someone could want, and more supplies overflowed in our storage rooms in the back.
The food bank was about to close and the restaurant would open its doors for the first time, as the chef was preparing the meal for the evening.
I paused near the entrance, taking it all in. The soft hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of pots. The chaos was controlled in the most satisfying way. It felt far more alive than anything I’d ever done for Whittaker Holdings.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted James and Hallie bustling around, making sure the first arrivals would have everything they needed. They moved with a kind of excitement that said they wouldn’t mind if they had to do this a hundred more times.
Volunteers were moving quickly, checking off lists, and preparing for when the doors would open to the line of families that stretched down the street and around the corner.
I stepped further inside, letting the warmth of the space wash over me.
The chatter of volunteers mixed with the occasional laughter of children waiting in line outside, a symphony of sounds that felt almost like a pulse.
My eyes kept drifting toward the front entrance, where the first family I’d asked the volunteers to expect was now arriving, bundled in winter coats and scarves, their breath forming small clouds in the chilly air.
Hallie was already crouched down to greet them, her energy practically radiating as she handed the little ones their first bags of groceries. James hovered nearby, guiding the family through the check-in process with his usual calm, measured demeanor.
“Mr. Sebastian!” The young girl I’d met with her brother and mother came running up to me, the widest grin on her little face. “We were first in line, just like you said. There are so many people out there. Do you think everyone will get something to eat?”
I bent down so I was at her eye level, her mittened hands clutching the strap of her grocery bag like it was a late Christmas present. “Everyone will get something,” I told her, steady, certain. “That’s the whole point. No one will leave with empty tummies.”
Her grin widened, and for a second, I swore my heart was going to clench so tightly that it might just cease to beat again.
Behind her, her brother lingered, shy and watchful, but his shoulders weren’t so tense as the first time I’d met him. Their mother gave me a nod, her eyes rimmed red but full of something that filled me with pride—hope. Seeing those little seeds being planted landed like a punch in my chest.
I stood, running a hand over the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. But it clung to me, heavier than any deal I’d ever closed on the top floor of Whittaker Holdings tower. It nearly consumed me how I’d somehow missed out on this kind of fulfillment until now.
“Sebastian.”
The sound of my name, spoken in that low, commanding voice, froze me where I stood. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. There was no way. No way would he ever set foot here.
But when I turned, there he was. My father, with a perfectly pressed wool coat draped over his broad shoulders, a cashmere scarf wound neatly around his neck. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of the boardroom and into a place he had no business being.
I blinked. “Dad?”
His gaze swept over the room, taking in the stocked shelves, the bustling volunteers, the line of families stretching out the glass doors.
For once, his sharp eyes didn’t carry that usual undercurrent of judgment.
Instead, he looked almost studious. Measuring.
And when he finally looked back at me, there was something startling in his expression.
Approval.
“This is impressive,” he said simply, his tone clipped but not cold. If anything, the lack of coldness in his voice was the most alarming. “Very impressive.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to do with that. My father didn’t hand out compliments. He rationed them like diamonds instead. They were rare and costly. Never given freely.
“You’ve built something sustainable here,” he continued, stepping closer. “If you keep this up, prove it isn’t a passing whim, your time away from Whittaker Holdings will end.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The underlying meaning was clear. I was to come back, resume my place in the company now that I’d proven myself enough to return to the fold.
There was a time not even a few months ago when that was all I wanted.
But I didn’t want that. Not anymore.
“I don’t think you understand,” I said slowly, straightening my shoulders. “I don’t want to come back.”
My father’s head tilted, his brows lifting ever so slightly in surprise. It wasn’t often someone told him no and lived to walk away afterward.
“This,” I gestured around the room, to the kitchen, the families, the laughter of children threading through the air, “this is what I want. Not fashion. Not commodities. Not another merger or acquisition. I want the company to expand into something that changes lives. We could do more than run a food bank. We could create an entire arm of the company dedicated to philanthropy. Charitable outreach on a global scale. Real investments in people, not just products.”
For a long moment, he just stared at me, his face unreadable. And then slowly his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile.
“You’ve thought this through, it seems.”
“I have,” I said firmly. “More than I ever thought I would. And I would love to head it all.”
Another long silence stretched between us. I half-expected him to dismiss me, to laugh at the idea, to cut me down with a well-placed remark that would remind me who held the power.
Instead, he adjusted his scarf, his sharp gaze flicking back around the room.
“Bring me the plans,” he said finally. “Something concrete. I’ll look them over.”
My pulse hammered. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no.
And for my father, that was as close to an open door as anyone ever got.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the street in dusky pink and orange, the food bank had closed its doors.
But inside, it was far from quiet. The staff made the shift almost seamlessly: they brought out tables, spread linens, and lit candles.
The smell of simmering tomato sauce now mixed with so many more delicious smells.
The volunteers moved with the same energy, only now they carried steaming plates instead of grocery bags. Families were now seated at small round tables, each place setting laid with the care that would’ve passed muster at any fine dining establishment uptown.
And then came the first bite.
I watched from the kitchen doors as eyes widened with the first taste melting on their tongues.
The diners closed their eyes as though they were trying to memorize the flavor.
Some leaned back in their chairs by the end of the meal as though they hadn’t felt this full in years.
I even saw a young boy glance around before sliding his mother’s dessert bowl his way to finish what she hadn’t eaten.
For most of them, this wasn’t just dinner.
It was their first experience of dining out.
Or the first time they had something that was nearly farm-to-table.
And knowing I’d helped put it in front of them filled me with something sharp and overwhelming, a heat in my chest that nothing had ever touched before.
I waited until everyone had finished eating, until the laughter and chatter had softened to goodbyes and the last workers had finished cleaning.
It was the most rewarding feeling turning the key in the front door, full of restless and buzzing energy that sent me walking home instead of using the subway or my town car.
I walked. Just me, hands shoved into my coat pockets, my breath visible in the night’s chill. I followed only the pull of the city streets, without paying attention to where I was going.
And then I stopped.
Because somehow, without planning it, my feet had carried me all the way to Roxie’s neighborhood. Right to her front door.
Her building stood quiet against the night sky, a warm glow spilling from the windows of the second floor. And just behind the sheer curtains, I caught sight of her.
She was curled up in a chair by the window, hair loose around her shoulders, a blanket tucked under her chin. Her face tilted slightly toward the light of her laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together in that way she did when she was stubbornly refusing to give up on something.
I stood there like a fool, staring up at her window, the city humming around me.
God, she was beautiful.
A part of me wanted to knock on her door. To climb those stairs and tell her everything about my day—the food bank, my father, the plans that were finally feeling like a future I wanted and was excited for. To tell her that every time I tried to picture that future, she was in it.
But I’d have to settle for an email to her old account instead. The one that I’d kept emailing all these months, knowing my words would never reach her.
I just stood there in the cold, watching her through the glass, aching with longing.
Part of me wondered if these feelings for her would ever go away.
Or if they would remain buried between my ribs—having carved out a place for themselves inside me forever.
The ache in my chest deepened from seeing her, but it wasn’t unbearable.
Not tonight. Tonight, I was grateful simply to see she was okay.
Today wouldn’t have felt complete without her.
I let out a slow breath and finally turned away.
The city swallowed me back up, but the image of her lingered in my mind the entire way home.
Re: I’ve Done it, Rox
From: princewhittaker98@
To: Roxanne-Kirsten-King@
Roxie,
I wish you could have seen it today. I could almost picture you there in the thick of it all—smiling as you greeted every guest that came in.
Even if you never see what we’ve built, I’m okay with that.
I just wish I could see you smile when you walk through the door.
Because in that moment, you’d know I really did something good for once.
Sebastian xx