Page 3 of Trust Fund Baby

Those nights had once felt like escape. Like the freedom that I craved. The first real taste of the life I’d always wanted.

Until they weren’t.

And now?

He looked like the person he was always meant to be. His dark hair framed his striking green eyes, and his expensive suit probably cost more than my monthly rent. The easy grin, which had once caused teenage butterflies in my stomach, had hardened into something close to a wolf’s smirk. His face had lost the softness I remembered, becoming angular, and the youthful spark of his eyes had dimmed over the past ten years.

What the hell was I meant to do now? Hug him? Smile? He’d demolished my financial future the last time I’d seen him.

As his eyes met mine he extended his hand.

“Sebastian Whittaker.” He gave me that familiar, disarming smile he’d use on teachers when he turned in late assignments, a smile that always got him out of trouble. He never used to give me that smile. He knew I knew him too well for that. But here we were.

If he wanted to pretend he didn’t know me, then fine. Two could play at that game.

It took every ounce of my being not to bolt from McGuire’s and instead, reach out to grasp his hand. “Roxie King.”

The instant his hand met mine, my cheeks burned.

“Well, now it’s a party.” With a sly wink that set the rest of my body alight, he reached into his jacket and produced a sleeve of Cuban cigars.

The match’s flame flickered for a moment, lighting up Sebastian’s calm face as he ignited the cigar. That confidence was cultivated at Connecticut dinner parties, amidst the murmur of influential voices and the gleam of silverware. The exact same dinner parties that we both had to suffer through growing up, usually sitting side by side.

Just as I started to believe Sebastian would ignore me for the rest of the night, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, his breath sending shivers across my skin.

“You still wear Chanel No. 5.”

2

Seb

The Ghost of Girlfriends Past had never really been my style. All that sappy, introspective reflection on past loves just seemed like a waste of time better spent pursuing the next person. I’d learned early on, probably from watching my father’s fleeting relationships, that deep emotional connections were best avoided. The act of falling into bed with a woman had turned into a carefully rehearsed play of charm and detachment. Dates were easy—a charming smile, a well-chosen restaurant, and a practiced line or two always did the trick. Endings were even easier—a mumbled excuse about work, a disappearing act, a ghosting that left them wondering what they’d done wrong.

Except with Roxie King. That ending was almost my undoing.

Even a decade later, the memory of that messy, gut-wrenching explosion of hurt feelings and accusations still echoed in my mind.

So, after James and I walked into McGuire’s, the last person I was expecting to see amidst the dim lighting and the crowded space was her.

It felt like a different lifetime the last time I’d laid eyes on her. People had said she was in New York City, where she was trying to make a life for herself in the art world, but the city’s size was such that it could swallow people whole. We certainly didn’t run in the same circles anymore. My life was a dizzying mix of endless hours in the office, the sting of alcohol, and nights that often blurred into oblivion. While hers, according to whispers I’d heard through the years, was a whirlwind of gallery openings and rooftop parties.

She’d disappeared from our wealthy Connecticut hometown, vanishing without a trace as if she’d never been there in the first place.

The manicured perfection of our town, with its sprawling estates and country club, had never seemed enough to hold her. I don’t think she ever truly fit into the world of debutante balls and trust funds.

We’d spent so many nights as kids on my sailboat rocking gently in the Long Island Sound, dreaming about what New York City would bring for us as adults. On clear nights, the shimmering city skyline pulled her in, much like how a good time always called to me.

The woman I saw tonight was not the Roxie who I’d shared stolen cigarettes with behind the tennis courts. Or the girl from homeroom, super focused, tapping her pencil on her notebook while I leaned close, smelling her perfume. This woman seemed more totally at home in herself, and in this city, as if she wore New York City like her favorite jacket.

Despite everything, the sight of her now, positioned in a booth under the ruby sheen of a neon beer sign, felt like a glitch in the matrix.

I had remained at the bar, awaiting my bourbon, while James sent wine over to Hallie, a girl he seemed to have a love-hate relationship with, and who looked like she was already on a date. However, when I glanced over, I thought I was hallucinating.

Sitting opposite her was a gorgeous blonde, who had always lived in the secret places of my imagination.

Roxie.

Of all the places, of all the nights. While fate wasn’t something I usually subscribed to, this situation seemed different, as though the universe, having had enough of my behavior, was now offering up my deepest regret.