Page 55 of Trust Fund Baby

There she was.

As soon as Michelle mentioned Roxie’s name, my heart started pounding like a racehorse at the starting line. I’d been counting down the days since I last saw her on Memorial Day weekend. Ever since, the sound of her laugh had embedded itself back into my brain and refused to let go.

When Michelle had agreed to let me come as her plus one, I’d let out the longest sigh of relief I think I’d ever breathed. Which obviously prompted her to launch into a full interrogation about why I wanted to come in the first place. Michelle Granger wasn’t just a socialite with impeccable taste. She was an apex predator when it came to digging up the truth. I’d learned that back in college when she’d sniffed out a prank I’d pulled without leaving so much as a single breadcrumb trail.

By the time she was done asking all of her questions, she basically knew mine and Roxie’s entire history. Well, almost everything. She knew that Roxie and I had a history. That we’d been inseparable for much of our childhoods, until we weren’t. That I hadn’t seen her in over a decade until a couple of months ago. That we’d spent Memorial Day weekend together with Hallie and James and … well … that there had been something between us again.

Michelle had a way of cutting straight through you like she could peel back the layers and find the weakest spot without even breaking a sweat.

So when she’d said, “Sebastian, if you pulled that disappearing act on me the next morning, I’d have blocked you before breakfast,” I couldn’t exactly argue. I’d completely stepped in it. Unfortunately, it was going to take drastic measures to get Roxie to listen to my explanation and learn that this was all just a massive misunderstanding.

Now, standing here in the middle of the gallery’s warm glow, I could feel the gap between us like a live wire. Roxie, in a leather jacket, looked far more edgy than any of the customers in the room, who were dressed in labels and brands I recognized as part of Whittaker Holdings. She was making her way across the room, an earpiece wrapped around one ear, as she greeted guests with a polite smile. Nobody knew what they were being robbed of—being on the receiving end of one of Roxanne King’s genuine smiles.

Michelle led me forward, confidently navigating the bustling crowd with an air of familiarity, as if the space belonged to her, which was a fair assumption considering her numerous art acquisitions. She moved through the crowd, and the whispers of admiration for her recent foundation gala or her vacation with Elliot in Capri, were just audible as people stepped aside.

When Roxie finally caught sight of us, her expression shifted. No longer was she even trying to pretend to smile. Her lips flattened, her gaze narrowing just enough to let me know this was not going to be the reunion I’d been playing over in my head for the last week.

She didn’t slow her pace, didn’t fumble or lose that poised, purposeful walk, but her eyes never met mine. Instead, she focused on Michelle, as though I were nothing more than a shadow tagging along behind her.

“Roxie! There you are darling,” Michelle greeted, taking Roxie’s hands in hers. “I want to introduce you to a dear friend of mine. He’s been dying to see this show ever since I told him about it. He’s looking for some new pieces for his place.”

That should have been her cue to finally look at me, but still she kept her gaze planted on Michelle’s.

“Of course. Always a pleasure to see you,” Roxie said to Michelle.

Trying once more to direct Roxie’s attention my way, Michelle swept her hand in my direction. And I definitely owed her. She was just as good a wingman as either James or Elliot had been throughout college. “Roxie, this is Sebastian Whittaker.”

After what felt like ages, she finally dragged her eyes over to meet mine. “Sebastian,” she said through what looked like clenched teeth. “What an … unexpected surprise.”

Her voice was cool, clipped—like she had carefully delivered each word to avoid giving me even an ounce of excitement.

“Roxie,” I said, and my own voice came out lower than I meant it to, edged with something that was half relief, half regret. “You look—”

“Busy,” she cut in, the word snapping between us with a finality.

Michelle glanced from Roxie to me, clearly sensing the tension rising. But instead of tossing me a lifesaver, anything to help me right the ship that was this conversation, she tossed me to the wolves entirely. “Well, I’ll leave you two to … catch up. I just spotted Eleanor Hargrove, and if I don’t get to her before she gets to me, she’ll tell my mother I snubbed her. Again.” She gave me a discreet pat on the arm that told me not to blow this before slipping into the crowd.

So much for her being a stellar wingwoman.

Suddenly, it was only the two of us.

Though it was clear Roxie had other plans than to hang around and share the same air with me. She turned on her heel, making good on her promise of being busy. Before she could get far, my trembling hand reached out to stop her.

She froze, but not because she wanted to. Rather because she was too polite to cause a scene in the middle of a high-profile gallery event. Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes landing on my hand like it was something she might scrape off her shoe.

I let go immediately, palms up. “Roxie, please. Just hear me out.”

Her lips curved, but it wasn’t anything close to a smile. “Hear you out?” she repeated, tilting her head in that way she used to when she was deciding if someone was worth her time. I had just never been on the receiving end of it before. “You mean listen to whatever excuse you’ve been workshopping?”

“It’s not an excuse,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. I could practically feel my chances of getting Roxie to see reason slipping away from me. “It’s the truth.”

“Interesting,” she murmured, adjusting the cord of her earpiece. “Because the truth usually doesn’t require you to come to my place of work to corner me.”

Her words landed like a slap, but I stayed rooted in place, refusing to let her walk away without at least trying.

“I didn’t come here to corner you,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level. “I came because you blocked my email address, and I have no other way of contacting you. I don’t have your phone number, so I asked Michelle for it, and she said she was coming here tonight. I wanted to talk to you in person rather than having to do it over a text message. Things can get lost in translation like that, and—”

“Me blocking you on email should have been your first clue that I don’t want to hear from you, translation barriers or not,” she cut in, her eyes full of daggers now. She took a step closer, not enough for anyone nearby to notice, but enough for me to catch the faint scent of her goddamn perfume that made my chest ache with familiarity.