Page 63 of Trust Fund Baby

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.