Page 8 of The Betrayer
As I stood to return to my duties, I caught sight of her screen from the corner of my eye—Angela was trading stocks.
Chapter 4
Will
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ISLIPPED MY ARMS INTOthe soft fabric of the white tuxedo shirt, looking in the mirror as I fastened the long row of buttons and tucked it in. Then I pulled on the silk vest on and secured that as well. Smoothing the various fabrics, I inspected myself in the mirror, making sure everything was in place.
Without putting on the jacket that was draped over the back of a chair, for now, I felt satisfied. My tailor had outdone himself this time, and I looked better than ever. The cut and fit of the bespoke set were a far cry from the mall store suits I’d worn when I’d begun the company. If nothing else, this spoke of how far I had come over the years, from barely scraping by to ordering suits and tuxedos made specifically for me.
Looking around the bedroom, it struck me, as it sometimes did, how different my life had become. Just this single room was far more extensive than my first apartment. My entire life was a far cry from where I’d begun.
I hadn’t grown up with money as Paul had. Instead, I’d grown up in a lower-middle-class family living on the edge between the city and the suburbs. Both parents had worked and had been too tired to care much about my siblings and me when they got home. Instead, their inattention meant I had decently free rein to do what I wanted, which sometimes got me into trouble. Other times, it had given me the freedom to find my passion, as I had with the company.
What had begun as an idea in my teenage bedroom, fiddling around with ideas, designs, and websites, had become a possibility in college. Working from my dorm room, I’d been able to use what I learned to fiddle around with better, more mature ideas. I’d had to work my way through college, though, and lacked time to play with the idea. I’d also been distracted by things like frat parties, sorority girls, and a lot of very bad, very cheap beer.
It hadn’t been until I had graduated that I’d found my way back to my idea. Cut off from the frat parties and free-flowing booze, sitting at a desk in a dead-end job that had bored the crap out of me, I had finally taken my ideas and made them a reality.
Paul hadn’t been born yet when I’d begun the company in a single office room. It had just been me for the first two years, working day and night to make it work. Then with six employees and me. Then ten and a slightly bigger office. Then twenty. Then sixty, and another new office.
Those first years were rough, but we’d made it three, then we made it five, struggling, still working late nights and weekends. We’d lived entirely on my wife’s salary at the time because the company hadn’t been solvent yet. I schmoozed and hustled my way to investors, charging grand dinners I couldn’t afford just to get a few words with them.
Paul didn’t remember what it was like to live in a tiny apartment with all of us squeezed together. There had been nothing romantic about those early days. Paul, my ex, and I had been piled on top of each other, unable to escape when I was home, which hadn’t been often.
The company had finally reached a tipping point, with funding, with investors, with recognition, and suddenly it wasn’t such a slog. Suddenly, I was able to leave more of the actual company to others. Suddenly, we had money that gave us a chance to move out of our tiny digs to something with more space, then even larger, then something enormous. We bought another home and a third in a ski resort town and a summer home by the beach. I didn’t have to take the subway to work anymore, but I could call a car to pick me up, blending into all the other expensive black cars inching through Manhattan traffic in the morning and evening rush hours.
That was the problem—Paul never struggled as I had. He didn’t remember anything from those early years. Instead, the kid went to all the best schools, rubbing shoulders with the city’s blue bloods. He went to prep school and an Ivy League to play Lacrosse and sing the same old fight songs the people you see in those old sepia-tone photographs probably sang.
He didn’t realize how much work I’d put in at the beginning and why it was okay for me to take it easy now. I’d put in the work and had set up a strong foundation so the company had something on which to stand and run smoothly. Paul had an essential hand in running the company despite his sour expressions and no-nonsense work ethic, which he certainly hadn’t gotten from me. It was in good hands, and I could back off a bit. In twenty years, I’d be retired anyway. It was better to start moving power over while there was still plenty of time.
My phone dinged as I hovered close to the mirror. I ignored it and slipped the bowtie’s last loop through the satiny folds and pulled it tight before fidgeting with it to make sure it was perfect. Then I reached for the device, hoping it wasn’t yet another text from my son asking me where I was.
I frowned when I saw it was an unknown number. My frown tipped up when I read the message.
This is Steffanie, the bartender from the club. I can be off work in ten minutes. That invitation to the party still open?
