pause. He was in his office, I was sure, because I could faintly hear the cacophony of Manhattan below outside his window, the taxis bludgeoning their way through the midtown traffic with their horns. “That photo, of your dad’s hand after he died?” he finally said. “I saw that on your feed, and it made me go cold. That this was going to be our life, you know? Everything out there on the table for the world to see. Our most private moments on display, being monetized as clickbait for strangers. Because I don’t want that.”
I looked at the photos scattered around me. There was one of newborn Benny just days home from the hospital. I was three years old, and carefully holding him in my tiny lap as my mother leaned protectively over us both. She and I had intent expressions on our faces, as if we were both aware that the line between life and death is just a matter of a slip of the wrist. “This is coming from your mother, isn’t it? She thinks I’m bad for business, for some reason. Too much in the public eye?”
“Well,” he said. Through the line I could hear an ambulance siren, and I couldn’t help but think of the person trapped inside it, approaching death as the ambulance went nowhere in the rush hour gridlock. “She’s not wrong. Vanessa, your lifestyle…it’s just…The optics are bad. A trust fund kid who’s famous for traipsing around the world in expensive clothes—it’s not so relatable. With all the talk of class warfare right now…I mean, you saw what happened with Louise Linton.”
“Dammit, I’m self-made! I did this all myself!” (And yet, even as I was screaming this into the receiver, I remembered with a twinge of guilt the monthly trust-allocation check sitting on my desk in Manhattan.) “So, what, your mom thinks it wouldn’t do for her son to be seen running around with an heiress on private jets even though she would’ve taken my dad’s money for her campaign in a heartbeat? Hypocrite. Don’t you see? People are angry at us when really they would trade their lives for ours in an instant if given the opportunity. They want to be us; they would kill to climb aboard a private jet. Why do you think I have a half-million followers?”
“Whatever, Vanessa.” He sighed. “It’s not just my mom. What if I decide to go into politics, too? It’s been bothering me for a while. Your work, your life, it just feels…shallow. Empty.”
“I’ve built a community,” I said hotly. “Community is a vital part of the human experience.”
“So is reality, Vanessa. You don’t actually know any of those people. All they do is tell you how great you are. There’s nothing authentic about any of it, it’s just the same predictable posturing day in and day out—parties and outfits and oooh doesn’t she look cute sitting on the steps of that four-star hotel. Rinse, repeat.”
This cut uncomfortably close to the bone. “So, what now?” I snapped. “You work in finance, Victor. Don’t tell me about shallow. So somehow when I’m out of the picture you’re going to become an enlightened human being? You’re going to quit your job and start building latrines in Mozambique?”
“Actually.” He cleared his throat. “I did just sign up for a meditation course.”
“Oh fuck you!” I screamed, and threw the phone across the room. And then I tugged the engagement ring off my finger, and flung it after the phone. The ring rolled into a corner and when I went to look for it a few days later, it had vanished entirely. I was pretty sure the cleaning crew took it.
Good, I thought. They can have it.
* * *
—
The next week, my father’s will was read. Of course Daddy didn’t leave Stonehaven to my brother. Why would he leave the estate to someone who vowed to burn it to the ground? No, the house was to be my burden now: Five generations of our family’s stuff, the Liebling legacy, and I was now its caretaker.
But Stonehaven was also a gift, I soon learned. Because when I finally went back to New York, I couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for V-Life anymore.