Page 17 of My Wild Horse King

And it’s big.

I just can’t figure out what it is.

5

GUSTAV

Ihate horses.

From the moment I was born, they were foisted upon me. My mother loved them. My father’s obsessed. Our entire family, I was told as soon as I could understand words, arehorsepeople. We love them. We raise them. We race them. We live and breathe them.

Only, I never really got the draw.

They’re large. Clumsy. Stupid. They stink. They eat between twenty and thirty pounds of grass or hay a day, and where does all that go? Poop. Poop that humans idiotic enough to keep them constantly have to deal with. From the moment that Daimler invented the car, we should have retired the less reliable, more costly, and less useful version of transportation. Forever.

Who wants to ride a motorcycle that spooks at trash and tries to kill you?

It’s a stroke of irony, really, that my company revolves around horses. Or maybe it’s not. They do say that you should do what you know in business, and I knewnothingas well as I knew horses. It makes sense that when I decided to start a company, I’d focus on one that siphons off an industry I already knew and hated. I have no guilt taking money from people dumb enough to gamble it all away. It feels, for once, like I’m getting a little of my own back. I make money off people who can’t keep from betting on horses, and I do it in three ways, hence the company name, Trifecta.

Jean walks in during my call and hands me a folder. Her face is totally neutral, as always. “Thought you might want to see this.”

I finish up my conversation with our in-house lawyer before hanging up and flipping the folder open.

It’s one piece of paper.

But it’s kind of an important one. “Hey,” I shout at her retreating back. “The SEC approved our filing?” I stand up, a half-smile stealing its way across my face. “You’re kidding.”

One of my friends told me three days ago that he’d heard I was about to be approved. After the initial adrenaline surge—nothing. We waited. Waited some more. But finally. . .

“Start calling to set up?—”

Jean shifts so I can see her, and she’s already on the phone, smiling and talking at the same time, clearly anticipating my next step.

I swear under my breath, pick up my phone and start making some calls myself. It’s roadshow time. My hands are shaking as I line up our first appointments, blocking the time off in our shared calendar, which is stupid, because I’m totally prepared for this. We already decided to do New York appointments for the first three days and then start traveling. Our video’s spot on—we tested it on a few friends of mine who are also decision-makers with big firms. I’ve already spoken with most of the biggest investors, and based on our planned initial stock price, which is rather conservative, and our modest percentage for sale, success should be a lock.

Even so, I need this to fund and hold, because Grandfather turns seventy in two and a half weeks, and he’s going to announce his successor at that party.

My contact at Black Rock calls me fifteen minutes later. “Danny boy—we had a deal fall through, and I just got your message that you got your approval.” I hate that he always calls me Danny boy, but you don’t quibble over anything with the people who run the big funds. They make or break IPOs.

“I did,” I say. “Wow, you must have found out as fast as I did.”

“You probably wanted to start your presentations with a few softballs, but Evan has time in two hours. How’d you like to come in with a bang?”

“Of course,” I say. “The boardroom on Hudson Yards?”

“Yep,” he says. “See you at three.”

So much for grabbing lunch. Still, better to nail our first presentation, even if I wind up a little hangry by the end. It’s a little bit of a frenzy when I hang up, but we had most things ready to go, and I’m heading downstairs, briefcase in hand, my team assembled with thirty minutes to spare. Their boardroom is six minutes away by cab, or it’s an eleven-minute walk, so we’re good even if we can’t hail a cab easily.

Except it’s raining when I reach the lobby.

I don’t see any cabs, but I’m ordering an uber—with room for six—when someone calls my name from across the lobby—not my real name. My former name: Gustav.

Whoever it is clearly came in through the tenth street entrance, which is where normal foot traffic enters, but for them to know that name, I would expect them to come in off the street. I turn slowly, after clicking approve on the uber, which will arrive in four minutes, and that’s when I see who’s calling me.

She’s the last person I want to see, or at least, the second to last. It’s not really her fault that she looksexactlylike our mother. I’d forgotten how much it hurts, seeing her face. It’s also not her fault that she’s a direct line to Dad, the one person on Earth I’d really rather never see again.

But when Kristiana spots my face, she brightens noticeably.

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