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THE MASTERMIND

A RIVERS WILDE NOVELLA

By

Dylan Allen

CHAPTER 1

THE MASTERMIND

November2021

Rivers Wilde,

Houston, Texas

Omar

“Today we are toastingto the end of an era.” My father lifts a sleek stemless champagne glass in a silent command to the two hundred and fifty people gathered in the large, chandelier lit ballroom. Like they’re obeying a maestro, everyone lifts their flutes in near perfect unison.

Everyone except for me. After a lifetime of bending to his will, the final straw has landed, and I’m done.

“But we’re also toasting the start of a new age—that The Balanced Scale Fund is proud to be the driving engine of. This Community Co-op is the country club reimagined as a space whereallresidents are welcome. The fees are minimaland on a sliding scale. And the amenities are state of the art and groundbreaking. This isn’t a dressed-up YMCA.” He gives a pointed look at the journalist who coined that phrase in an article he wrote right after we announced the project. The journalist, who is sitting at the front VIP table, has since changed his tune. Laughter ripples across the room at the roasting, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that my father is good at this.

“This is a place where you can play golf while your kids have soccer practice. Or take a class on coding or teach a class on budgeting. You can celebrate milestones here. Or just drop in for dinner when you don’t feel like cooking but want a meal in a space that feels like home.

“The vision to build a space that fosters leisureandproductivity is the result of our collaboration with Wilde World and The Rivers Family Foundation.” He turns to face my table and smiles magnanimously at me. “But it is the brainchild of our board chairman and founder and my son, Omar. And today, he’s given us two reasons to celebrate. Just this morning he was conferred his Bachelor of Arts with Honors. Very proud of you, son.” He hoists his glass up, and the rest of the room joins him.

I accept the cheers, sip my drink, and smile despite the bitterness it leaves on my tongue.

When the cries of “speech, speech, speech,” ring out, I acquiesce and stand to meet my father’s eyes for the first time all afternoon. He’s smiling for the benefit of the onlookers, but his eyes tell a different story. And the anger in them is a mirror image of what I’ve been feeling.

He’s been my manager since I was scouted and has overseen every investment I’ve made over the years. In life and work, we’ve been perfectly in sync. Or so he thought, until this morning when he realized I’d broken his most sacred rule. And had been for years.

But it was my refusal to apologize when he commanded me to after our raging war of words thatreallygot under his skin. The furrows of anger in his forehead are joined by grooves of worry on the side of his frowning mouth. The last thing he said to me before we walked into the room together in a false united front was, “Don’t even think about going off script today.”

His worry that I’m going to let our private argument spill into the public is in vain and insulting. My father, with his background in business operations, was instrumental in getting The Fund off the ground ten years ago. He runs the Fund with a mastery that’s earned us both a lot of money and clout. But it was my vision that launched The Balanced Scales Fund. After a decade of investing in brands built on image, I wanted to invest in ideas. This isn’t just a business to me, it’s a passion.

Which is why, at the age of 32, I put my old ass through three and a half years of college while working by day as the chairman of our board and the unofficial director of joint ventures.

I break our silent war of wills and reach into the inside pocket of my suit for the piece of paper containing the short statement my publicist drafted for tonight. I hate public speaking with every fiber of my being, and nerves make my stomach tight.

I scan the room and find the table where my three best friends—Graham, David, and Reece—are sitting with their partners. They’re my touchstones, and I’m so glad they’re here. Also at their table is my one-night stand turned good friend, Reena. My eyes linger on the empty seat next to her where my mother was supposed to be sitting, and my ire returns anew.

While I read the meaningful but somewhat shallow platitudes of hope and gratitude, I’m careful not to look in my father’s direction for fear that my anger will overpower my good sense.

I stand smiling until the polite applause dies down. When it’s over, the attendees move en masse to the room where dinner willbe served. After a round of congratulations and a group selfie with my friends, I excuse myself to use the bathroom.

I catch a glimpse of my father and my agent, Dean, with their heads pressed together in deep conversation. He laughs, and I’m angry that he can manage to when I’m still seething.

Everyone else is too busy posting their videos and pictures on Instagram or TikTok to notice me walking away from the restrooms and toward the balcony that runs along the back of the ballroom. I loosen my tie the second I step outside and expel the resentment-tinged breath I’ve been holding all night into the cool night air.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, and my stomach clenches painfully at the number of missed calls from my mother.

I have her saved in my phone as “Marley” because Bob Marley is her favorite musician and because I knew my father wouldneverget the reference.

I open my texts to write to her and see the message she sent this morning. It’s a picture of her dressed in a blue Chanel suit she bought specially for the day. The text reads “Dressed to kill because I am so proud of my baby.”