Page 16 of Trust Fund Baby

As the meal continued on, part of me wished I’d never responded to that first email. That I’d never opened the door to let Sebastian Whittaker back into my life.

But I had.

Because no matter how far I ran or how much I tried to convince myself I was over it—over him—some part of me still wanted answers. Still wanted to believe there’d been a reason behind the silence. Behind his decisions. Some explanation that would make it all make sense.

And maybe a part of me still wanted the version of him that used to make me feel like I belonged. The boy who saw through the performance. Who knew the real me.

Even if that boy didn’t exist anymore.

I stayed quiet through the rest of dinner, letting the conversation swirl around me. My grandfather’s voice rumbled around the room with that same smug cadence. My mother laughed in her polished, practiced way. My father gave an occasional grunt, never looking up from his phone. Winn made dry observations just sharp enough to keep everyone from getting too comfortable. And my grandmother watched me like she always did.

By the time dessert arrived, I’d managed to retreat far enough into myself that the ache in my chest had quieted to something dull. Manageable.

Later, I stood in the driveway, the spring breeze kissing my skin as Winn walked me to my car, always the buffer and loyal co-survivor.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I always am,” I said with a small smile.

“Right,” he replied, unconvinced. “Just don’t let him get in your head.”

“Too late.”

Winn didn’t push. He never did. Just nodded and leaned in to kiss the side of my head.

Before he could turn back toward the house, I grabbed his arm. “Are you okay?”

Despite his uncanny ability to brush off anything serious with a witty joke and a charming smile, I sometimes wondered if he was more confused about our family than I was. Because even though I was broke and my grandfather could barely stand to be in the same room as me, at least I was free. Winn was still being forced to walk a path that he hadn’t chosen under the guise of legacy.

He gave me a wry smile, but there was a weariness beneath it.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It became easier when I stopped pretending I get to make my own choices.”

I winced. “That’s bleak.”

“Yeah, well. Bleak is the house specialty around here.” He gave my arm a squeeze. “Text me when you’re home.”

“I will.”

He turned and walked back toward the house.

Franklin’s voice echoed in my ears the entire car ride home. Sebastian’s betrayal from all those years ago still felt heavy in my chest. And somewhere in the space between those two things, I could still feel the girl I’d once been who had been desperate to be understood, to be seen, to be chosen.

I wasn’t her anymore.

Or at least, not completely.

7

Seb

“How’s it going with Hallie?” I asked as I sent the tennis ball back over the net toward James.

James glared and hurled it back at me with all his might. “There’s no chance you’re letting this go, is there?”

In the last few weeks, James had found himself increasingly involved with Hallie and her assignment to date the most sought-after bachelors in New York City’s finance industry. He acted as though he’d reluctantly volunteered himself for the job, casting himself as a martyr … but I knew my best friend was perfectly happy with his current position. He treated Hallie to an extravagant date every week, and she subsequently wrote about each experience for Sophisticate. She’d even given James a cute nickname, “Mr. Old Fashioned,” to keep his identity anonymous, which she’d taken from James’s usual drink of choice.

My lips quirked into a smile and I shook my head, amused by how annoyed he was. “You’re the one doing this Mr. Old Fashioned charade with your so-called arch nemesis. You don’t just get to pretend that isn’t happening or that you don’t have feelings for her.”