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My trust fund would provide for me. I didn't need a physically stale relationship, a prison sentence that would paint a permanent smile on my madness and lead me into an early case of depression and pharmaceutical drug use. But I didn't want to mention the trust. Not when I was an hour away from finishing this party and heading straight to the bank. Let her think, for just a little while longer, that she had some semblance of influence and control.
"Janice Wilkins told me she saw you working downtown. Please tell me that's not true."
I smiled. "I have a degree in quantitative science. It's not unreasonable for me to consider using it. I’m doing consulting for a medical firm. Overseeing some FDA trials."
"Please don't. Work causes stress, which will prematurely age you. And you only have—"
"A few good years left." I finished her sentence, keeping my voice light. I took another bite of cake, then scraped every bit of icing off the plate and slid the fork into my mouth. Sucking on the tines, I killed a little of my mother's soul.
"We've worked so hard for you to have a good life."
"And I do. You've done a wonderful job, and I'm very happy."
"What about Ned Wimble? I heard he and that Avon heir ended things."
I placed down my fork and wondered how much longer this celebration would take.
* * *
Two hours. That’s how long it took to sit through more stilted conversation and the opening of my gifts. Cashmere cardigan. Sapphire earrings from my father. A Tracey Garvis Graves paperback from Becky, the maid who knew more about me than both of my parents combined. Becky had been the one who’d found me puking in the bathroom as a teenager and cleaned up the mess and nursed me through my hangover. She'd cleaned my room and kept her mouth shut on condoms, birth control packets, and vodka bottles. She’d held me to her chest when I suffered my first broken heart, courtesy of Mitch Brokeretch—who hadn’t deserved my virginity, much less my tears.
I hugged both of my parents and closed the trunk’s lid, hiding all of the gifts. My real present wasn't in the trunk. It was in today's date, the trust paperwork that had been completed before my first birthday. Twelve million dollars waited for me in a joint account that I had watched from afar for over a decade. And now, with the papers I was about to sign, I would be free from my parents and from their expectations and requirements that have held this money above my head for the last two decades.
I drove straight to the attorney's office and, within thirty minutes, was a free woman. As I walked out of the sleek glass building on Wilshire Boulevard, a genuine smile crossed my face. By the time I visited the bank and transferred the funds into a money market account, it had turned into a full beam.
Freedom. It felt damn good. I put down my convertible's top and screamed into the wind. That night, I celebrated with one of my building's valets—a twenty-one-year-old kid who only lasted five pumps, but he brought some good weed and laughed at my jokes.
It was a sad start to my new life.
Chapter 2
THREE YEARS AGO
I spent the first two decades of my life planning for the moment when I could be free. To have the chance to abandon my cardigan and manners and rush headfirst into life. Dance in the moonlight. Smoke a cigar. Ride a motorcycle and fall in love for a reason other than social standing. I had romantic notions of waiting tables, hitchhiking across America, kissing a strange boy, feeling a rush of unknown possibilities.
I had grown to hate every stitch of my privileged surroundings. I craved escape from the dinner parties, the ingrained disdain of others, and raised brows of judgment. I wanted the happily-ever-after of movies, the messiness of real life, the reckless enjoyment of impulsive decisions. And the day of my twenty-fifth birthday, I'd felt free. Filled with hope and possibilities. The first day of the rest of my life.
Yet, as I approached my thirtieth birthday, I was still stuck in the exact same life. I'd had a few wild nights. Screwed some strangers with calluses on their hands. Visited a 7-Eleven and bought a hot dog. Went to Tijuana long enough to realize I would never go back. Then ... like a migrating bird, I drifted home to this world and settled back into the nest without even realizing it.
I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. The friends who weren't friends. The parties where everyone smiled but no one had fun. The world where life was a constant race to one-up each other, and the prom queen was still the bitch no one liked, but everyone flocked to like maggots to meat. I needed to escape this life, I needed to find something different, I needed to make my own path, but I was stuck. Stuck on repeat. Stuck in hell.
The driver appeared in the doorway behind me, his cap in hand, and met my eyes in the mirror. "I'll be out front whenever you are ready to leave for the event, Ms. Fairmont."
"Thank you. I'll be out shortly."
He nodded, turning to leave, and my gaze returned to the mirror. My brown eyes were lightly outlined in a mint chocolate brown. As always, I wore enough makeup to hide flaws and gently enhance my features, but no more.Classy, not trashy. My mother had trained me well. I stared into my reflection and tried to find the person in it. The mirror showed the woman I had been raised to be. A couture gown that was dramatic yet sophisticated. A polished exterior, from my hair to my heels. I stared at my shell and wondered why I couldn't break from it.
It didn’t matter. Tonight, of all nights, wouldn’t be the start of my change. In two hours was the primary fundraising gala for the Homeless Youth of America, an organization close to my heart. An important event that shouldn't be missed.
Maybe tomorrow I could turn over a new leaf, try again to leave the nest, and live a genuine and unmoderated life.
I applied a coat of clear gloss over my lipstick and avoided my eyes in the mirror.
* * *
"Brant Sharp.” He paused in front of me and extended his hand.
"Layana Fairmont.” I shook it, intrigued. I knew who he was. Everyone in this room knew who he was, but I wondered how many would be able to point out and recognize the elusive billionaire. The billionaire with, according to rumor, a particular preference of women. Expensive, pay by the evening, women.
