Page 28 of Best In Class
And I broke her.
I stand in a room full of people who want to celebrate me. People who I care about, who care about me, and yet, I have never felt more alone in my life.
I leave the party early, go to my apartment, open a Scotch that’s too expensive and too old, and sit on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the city that I made my home when I ran away from Luna.
I pretend that we’re together and I tell her. She smiles.
Her green eyes light up, and she says, “I told you.”
Then I remember the last time I saw her cry.
And between sips of whiskey that tastes like failure, I know.
It’s time to go home.
“I thought you’d be able to afford your own place by now, Calder.”
And just like that, the peace of Lev’s backyard dissipates.
Hewalks up to me like he owns this place. He doesn’t.This is Lev’s. Sure, it’s close to the Steele estate, but it’s stillfaraway spiritually and emotionally.
Lev cut ties with the house he grew up in, even if he didn’t with the residents of that mausoleum mansion.
I ignore Luna’s father.
“I hear you’re still sniffing around my daughter…again.” He jams his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.
I rise with my glass of Scotch and walk to the edge of the patio, and lean against the railing, looking out at the Savannah River.
Lev won’t appreciate it if I punch his old man.
“I hear you’re Minton’s golden boy now.”
The asshole follows me. He wants to get a rise out of me. This is his MO. This is how he behaves with his kids, too. Always trying to get a rise out of Lev, out of Luna.
“What do you want, Nathaniel?” I don’t look at him when I ask this, don’t give him that courtesy.
Also, I call him by hisname, which is an insult. I always addressed him as Mr. Steele or Sir.
Not anymore.
I’m not the half-black kid, scared that he doesn’t measure up. I’ve outgrown that. I know now it’s not about generational wealth or old money names—it’s about who you choose to betodayand how you intend to live tomorrow.
I’ve got nothing to prove to this walking relic of white entitlement—this man who thinks being descended from a Mayflower passenger makes him royalty.
He’s not a king. He’s not legacy. He’s not power.
He’s just shit—polished and privileged, but stillshit.
“I’m here to see my son.”
I jerk my chin toward the main house. “He’s not home.”
“I can’t believe you’re still leeching off the Steele family. Your mother is cleaning house for Luna and you’re?—”
“Nathaniel, Irepeat, what do you want?” I demand levelly.
He smiles, cold and thin. “Get the hell out of the lives of my children.”
