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The words stab straight into me. I didn’t even get to be the boy she deserved, because let’s be honest, she deserved so much more. And she’s only going to get better, while I’m still here. Waiting. Wasting time. Doing nothing.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me she was leaving. Why she hasn’t been texting me back. Maybe she’s arrived at Harvard and realised she can do so much better than me.

“Alright,” I say, nodding. “You’re right. I need to figure my shit out. I don’t mind getting to work, I just thought…” I trail off, unsure how to articulate the mess in my head.

“You thought wrong,” he says firmly. “And I don’t say that to punish you, Evan. I say it because this isyourchance. You want to prove yourself? Great. This is the way to do it. Show me—and yourself—that you’ve got what it takes.”

“You’re right, Dad. I’ll start next week, maybe I could shadow you for—”

“Hah!” He bursts out into laughter, slapping his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, his shoulders bouncing. “Did you hear that, sweetheart?”

My mother appears in the doorway, holding a golden compact mirror and patting powder onto her cheekbones. She’s in a long, structured dress in champagne satin, a tiny purse tucked under her arm, and she looks up, mouth rounded into a little ‘o’.

“Hear what?” she says, patting my shoulder as she passes me, then reaching up to kiss my father quickly on the lips. “We’re running late.”

“Our son thinks he’ll be shadowingmenext week,” Dad says, and I can already tell he’s done with the pep talk because he’s pushed off the kitchen island and is following Mom out into the hall.

And it’s not just because they’re late for the theatre or the opera or wherever it is they’re going tonight. It’s because he’s got that look in his eyes as he watches Mom lean towards the hallway mirror to fix her lipstick, a look I probably inherited, because something tells me that’s exactly how I look at Sophie. I follow them, catching Mom’s reply.

“I thought he was shadowing Gilbert?”

I frown. “Gilbert? Who thefuck’s Gilbert?”

“Language!” Mom hits my arm with a glare and then looks back at Dad, eyes warming immediately. “Ready, sweetheart? Car’s here.”

He nods at her, pecking her forehead, and then he speaks at me over Mom’s head as she fixes his tie and brushes invisible specks of dust from his shoulders.

“You really thought you’d be shadowing me? Earn your title by sitting in my office watching the clock? Come on, son. No chance. You’ll start at the bottom, in Operations, with Gilbert Coulter.”

“Operations?” I follow them out towards the door, frowning. “What, like… logistics?”

Dad nods, grabbing his coat and folding it neatly over one arm. “Like grunt work, Evan, yes. Schedules, reports, calls. If you think it’s beneath you, that’s your problem. You want to inherit this company someday? Prove you can hold down a desk first.”

“When was this decided exactly?” I ask, glaring at him. Clearly he’s given this some thought.

“When you brought home a paltry handful of middling grades from one of the world’s top academic establishments and still had the audacity to be dating a future Harvard grad.”

Monday morning dawns cloudlessand bright. If I were to analyse the pathetic fallacy like Sophie taught me when she used to tutor me for English lit, then I would guess I’m about to have a good first day at my new job. It doesn’t stop me from feeling jittery and anxious, though.

In the car on the way there, I scroll resentfully through my friends’ lives on social media. Sev posting photos of hisfiancée Anaïs, all sunny smiles and picturesque châteaus in the French countryside. Zach and Theo lounging in Oxford libraries, posing with marble busts like the insufferable academics they are. Even Luca—still the same cold-blooded snake I once beat to a pulp—seems to be thriving, grinning smugly in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

Iakov’s bleak snapshots of concrete apartments and empty liquor bottles are the only posts I can stomach. At least his life seems about as hollow, loveless and miserable as mine. I text him on impulse.

Evan: Life good, bro?

Iakov: Life a sack of shit, bro.

I shut my phone off and rest my head back against the seat, feeling vaguely vindicated by Iakov’s reply. The car finally emerges out of New York traffic to pull up in front of KMG’s office in Manhattan. The building is a sleek skyscraper near midtown, not so different from any other—aside from the fact that it bears my name.

The driver pulls up to the kerb, but I don’t move. My fingers tighten around my phone, pressing against the edge until it leaves a red dent in my skin. For a second, I debate telling him to circle the block—just once, just for a minute, just until my stomach stops twisting itself into knots.

But what would be the point in stalling?

I step out onto the kerb, tugging at my collar. I thought wearing a suit wouldn’t feel so different from wearing my Spearcrest uniform, but I was wrong. Despite the tailored fit, my blazer feels too stiff, my tie too tight, closing about my neck like a noose.

A concierge greets me and ushers me inside. The double-height lobby, with its marble flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows and its rich shades of cream and brown, exudes importance, elegance, luxury. The lights are glossy yet muted; the clicking of heels on marble echo like multiplied heartbeats beneath the busy murmur of voices.

Above the reception desk, the KMG logo dominates the wall, backlit in gold.