Page 38 of Selfish Suit

“How the hell are you affording to stay in a place like this, Ivy?” my dad bellows from across the lobby. “The price tag is something I wouldn’t be able to afford in twenty lifetimes.”

My mother and my older sisters walk in behind him, their expressions fit for a funeral.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you in town?”

“I’m asking the questions here.” His voice is terse. “Newark is only four hours away, and you know I can make it here far faster than that if my daughter is in deep shit.”

“Deep shit?”

“Since when do you live in Manhattan?” He eyes the chandelier above us. “Are you selling drugs?”

“No, Dad.”

“Are you into human trafficking?”

“What?”

“Your sister’s place—the one she bought after closing that Ferguson deal for me—isn’t even this nice. So whatever you’re doing, it must be something illegal.” He looks livid. “I’m glad Nolan called us with his concerns. This is an emergency indeed.”

“George.” My mom places a hand on his arm. “Let Ivy explain herself.”

“I am letting her explain. She’s standing there like a damn mute.”

“I got a promotion,” I say. “This is?—”

“So, you’re sleeping your way to the top?” He shakes his head. “Oh God. We raised you better than that.”

“I got a promotion based on my talent, Dad,” I say. “In marketing.”

He and my mom exchange a look. It’s the same look they’ve shared since I was seven years old, when they realized I wasn’t going to follow the path of my older three siblings into the family business.

There would also be no sports. No music. Nothing extracurricular.

Just creative writing.

I brace myself for my dad’s “You still owe us money for taking so long to finish your degree” speech, followed by my mother’s “Why can’t you try to be more like your brothers and sisters? What’s wrong with chasing something successful?” pity monologue.

If it weren’t for the fact that I know them verbatim—and that I’ve steeled my heart against their veiled venom disguised as wisdom—I’d probably break into tears.

But there’s a part of me that wants to confess everything right now—dropped out of college, still surviving, trying to create something for myself that actually means something—and in the midst of their yelling, right as the profanity-laced confession is about to roll off my tongue, the door from the parking garage opens.

Dominic, dressed in a white T-shirt and gray sweats like he’s just come from the gym, takes out his earbuds and looks between them and me.

“Well, hello there, sir.” My father walks over to him. “Since you live in this building, maybe you can help us get to the bottom of this.”

“What exactly is this?” Dominic asks.

“Do you know my daughter here by chance?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Well, maybe. Her boyfriend Nolan mentioned a shady roommate situation. Is that you or someone else?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore, Dad.” I hiss. “He’s an asshole and he called you with bullshit to get back at me.”

My dad waves off my words, extending a hand to Dominic. “George Locke of New Jersey. We—minus Ivy here—run one of the top family-owned agricultural centers on the East Coast. You?”

“I’m Dominic Sutton,” Dominic says. “I’m the CEO of Sutton Enterprises. My company designed most of the labels for the vendors you supply.”

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