@BettencourtBets: Why fly private if you don’t join the Mile High Club?

Tristan

Kyle threw me a look tinged with disgust. “Of course you can say that. You’re a Bettencourt. If this fund blows up, you have a trust fund nearly as big as Millennial to rely on. You can lick your wounds in Ibiza for the rest of your life, waited on by bimbos in bikinis, and never have to worry about a thing. But for the rest of us schmucks, if this fund goes bust because our investors get cold feet after realizing their portfolio manager is more interested in chasing skirts than chasing gains, we’ll all be painted with the same bone-headed brush.”

The hostility in his tone left me rattled. “Kyle, you know me better than that. Millennial is not exactly a hobby for me. And I’m sure as hell not going sabotage my career over a booty call.” But I wasn’t going to follow anyone else’s playbook either, even Kyle’s. Even if it made perfect sense. On paper, nothing about my relationship made sense, so defending it was impossible. “Listen, if you want to walk out the door, I’m not going to stop you. With your track record, you can get a job with any shop on the Street. Obviously you just don’t like her.”

“You’re right, I can. But I don’t want to. It might be your name on the door, but I’ve put my heart and soul into every investment we’ve made. This fund is as much mine as it is yours, and that goes for everyone on our team. I like Reina, I do. But my feelings about her have nothing to do with my concerns. We’re only as strong as our weakest link.”

“And you think Reina’s the weak link.”

Kyle leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, shaking his head. “Not at all. When Reina was my student, she was at the top of the class. And at Columbia, that’s saying a lot. She’s as smart and hardworking as they come. For a newbie, Reina’s got great instincts. She has a real future in this business. She’s no one’s weak link.” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You’re the goddamn weak link, Tristan. You need to end things with her, and not just for our sake. What do you think will happen if some hack decides to fill a slow news day with a story about you two—the hedge fund heir and his gorgeous young employee. Do you really want to fuck up her career before it’s even gotten off the ground?”

I folded my arms across my chest, a useless barrier to deflect the arrows being launched from across the table. Everything Kyle said was right, and yet not a single syllable made me want Reina less. “We’re not exactly broadcasting it on CNBC’s crawl.”

Kyle let out a derisive snort. “You don’t have to. It’s all over your face every time she walks in the room.”

Shit. I’d always been better at sports than poker. Letting an opponent know exactly what you thought of them without actually saying a word was an asset. But obviously that wasn’t the case in this situation. “I can work on that.”

“Yeah? Well, you’d better do it before someone snaps a picture of that hangdog look on your face and captions it via tweet.”

I sighed. The number of @BettencourtBets followers, already an offensive multiple of all Bettencourt employees, was growing by the hour. Of course Kyle would be on the receiving end of their snarky one-liners. Between tweets and retweets, half of Wall Street was privy to my every move. It was infuriating. “I will.”

But Kyle wasn’t finished. He had a lot to lose if our fund tanked—millions in bonuses and incentives, not to mention his reputation as one of Wall Street’s most talented analysts. “What do you really know about her, Tristan? She wasn’t a typical undergrad, and she’s blowing the pants off her training class competition. You and I make money by sniffing out the truth and capitalizing on it. I’m telling you, there’s something in her background that’s driving her. If I were you, I’d figure out what it is before going all in.”

It was exactly what I’d thought about Reina the moment I laid eyes on her—she was high return, high risk. Not for the casual investor. “Once we get back to New York, it won’t be long before she rotates to a different group. She’s not going to work on Millennial for her entire six-month training program.”

“You sure you’ll let her go?”

No. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I tossed back the last of my scotch. “You want to give me my balls back now?”

As much as I hated to admit it, Kyle raised some valid points. They swam through my veins as I headed back to my room, buzzing as loudly as the scotch. Not that I needed alcohol for the thought of Reina to set me on edge. Everything about her made me feel alive in a way that I never had before. Not on the ice or the trading floor, and certainly not with any other woman.

I had never known a woman like Reina. Sure I’d had plenty of casual sex and even a few girlfriends over the years. But even those few relationships had been just a series of mutually convenient hook-ups. At thirty-three, I truly hadn’t met anyone who interested me beyond what happened in the bedroom. No one who made my pulse jump erratically, my cock stiffening inside my clothes at the most inconvenient of moments.

I had expected to be married by now. To have a family already. Running my own hedge fund was great, but lately it felt more like a consolation prize than an actual trophy.

An image popped into my mind. A photograph of me with my parents, taken on the beach in Bermuda. There was sand in our toes, happiness radiating from our broad smiles. It had sat on the nightstand of my childhood bedroom for years, and on my eighteenth birthday, my father opened the frame to reveal a letter my mother had written on the back.

Dearest Tristan,

Today I wish you the happiest of birthdays. Send a glance skyward, because I will be watching, as always. My most cherished moments were with you, and your father. As you grow into the fine man I know you will be, I want to share my dream for you.

A love so strong, you know its true.

Don’t give your heart away too easily, my son. Especially to someone who only wants what the Bettencourt name and bank accounts can give her.

Find a woman who loves you for your heart, your mind, and your compassionate spirit. A woman who is fierce, who will fight for you when life isn’t easy. Because as you’ve discovered, too young, life isn’t always easy. I’ll be watching, always, and with all my love,

Your mother on earth, and in Heaven

Reina had spirit, that was for sure. And she was fierce. But was she willing to fight for anything other than her career?

Manhattan was a small island, and I’d been working seventy-, eighty-, ninety-hour weeks for as long as I could remember. The few women I’d had time to date, who at least pretended to understand my crazy schedule, had ulterior motives. Their hair color, skin tone, individual style might have been different, but they were all carbon copies of my stepmother. The kind of woman who would allow you to fuck her on Saturdays and every other Wednesday . . . provided you didn’t mess up her hair, nails, or makeup. As long as you could afford her, of course.

I’d never been with a woman I actually wanted to be with. My desire for Reina went beyond her looks, although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that they sweetened the deal. And while I’m being honest . . . it was only since meeting Reina that I’d realized how bored I’d been. She spoke her mind. She knew her stuff when it came to stocks, bonds, merger arbitrage, derivatives, foreign exchange, and everything in between. Not that Reina was ready to run her own fund, she still had a lot of learning to do. But there was a spark in her that I found irresistible. A thirst for knowledge. She was ambitious, and not in an unattractive way.

It boggled my mind that Reina thought I should be with some sort of socialite-in-training. That was the last kind of girl I wanted to come home to every night. True, not everyone with a trust fund was all bad. I really did like one of my stepsisters. And even though Van Horne was a complete prick, I’d been close friends with two of his three kids for years.

The elevator pinged as it opened onto my floor. Reina’s floor, too. I almost couldn’t believe I still hadn’t been inside her yet. An hour ago she’d been begging me to fuck her, and I’d been interrupted. Sexual tension simmered inside my gut. If Kyle had still been within arm’s length, I would have throttled him.

My footsteps slowed as I considered heading to Reina’s room, then thought better of it. I’d promised Kyle I would be discreet.

But we’d come so close tonight. I should be lying beside her right now, spent and disheveled. My head understood the reality of the situation. My dick, not so much.

I entered the hotel room tentatively, wondering if maybe there wasn’t a chance she would still . . . But no. A stab of disappointment hit me just under the ribs at the sight of my empty bed. I fished my phone out of my pocket and sat down at the edge of the mattress, an empty screen staring back at me. I should lock it in the safe, I knew. Anything to keep from begging.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. With a frustrated sigh, I leaned back against the pillows. That was a mistake. They still carried the lingering scent of Reina’s perfume. Jesus. What the hell, might as well ask. Tapping on the messenger app, I entered Reina’s name. I’m back. Wish u were still here. I pressed the send key, staring at it until it buzzed in my hands.

Good.

Good? That’s all she had to say? Swallowing my pride, I typed another question. Too late to come back?

U know it is.

Goddamn Kyle. K. See u tmrw.

Reina’s response was an offensively yellow emoji blowing a kiss. A sound that couldn’t quite make up its mind between growl and groan emerged from my throat. Tossing my phone on the nearest table, I shucked off my clothes and headed for the shower. A cold one.

Reina

My alarm went off well before any sign of daylight filtered through the windows, and only a few hours after I’d finally fallen asleep. I allowed myself just one swipe of the snooze feature on my phone before rolling out of bed and into the shower. Less than half an hour later I was out the door, rolling my suitcase toward the elevator. We were flying to Washington, DC, for the day, then continuing on to San Francisco for a benefit sponsored by Zuckerberg, Gates, and a few other Silicon Valley superstars. A world I had no doubt Tristan would feel right at home in. I, on the other hand, didn’t. Never had, although by now I could fake it well enough that no one would ever realize how out of my element I was among the high-octane world of the privileged elite. The top one percent of the top one percent.

Their overflowing bank accounts were like finely woven, one hundred percent secure, safety nets. The world was just different for them. Maybe money couldn’t actually buy happiness, but it could make a hell of a lot of problems disappear.

As I settled into the plush leather seats of the Bettencourt plane, purposely choosing the one furthest from Tristan, everything I’d discovered last night pressed down on my shoulders. I was carrying so much baggage, it was a relief when the plane lifted off the ground with barely a shudder.

Even with my limited relationship experience, I knew what Tristan and I had was different. But how could it go anywhere? I was in the first few days of a career I’d worked toward for years. That had to come first, didn’t it? Ending up like my mother, completely dependent on a man for everything, wasn’t an option.

But Tristan wasn’t the type to settle for second place. No way.

And my ambitions weren’t our only obstacle. Whether Tristan realized it or not, his family would never accept me. Especially if they discovered I was the illegitimate daughter of one of their own—a man who, even now, refused to acknowledge my existence. Not that I should be surprised, history was littered with bastards who fell just short of “good enough.”

I mean, if my own mother was able to just walk away from me, had knowingly married a man who wanted nothing to do with me—how could I ever expect to be worthy of a man like Tristan? Or his family? Strike that, especially his family. He had a father who clearly trusted him to run a run a high-profile hedge fund, and soon the entire company. Rightly so, as Tristan had proven himself incredibly dedicated, and more importantly, successful. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of photos online of III gazing proudly at IV at public events.

Putting us side by side was like comparing the winner of the Westminster Dog Show to an abandoned mutt at the local pound.

Even the man I grew up calling Dad didn’t really want me. He had kept me, hoping that my mother would one day come back to us. But she didn’t, and as I grew up to look more like her, I was a constant physical reminder of the woman who’d left him. He’d kept a piece of her, all right. A jagged shard that drew blood.

Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if he’d refused to support me once he realized I wasn’t his child. Would my mother have stood up to Van Horne, told him that she and I were a package deal? Would I be a Van Horne today? Thirty thousand feet above the earth, surrounded by glittering crystal and elegant wood paneling, every need met by an attentive staff just waiting for an opening to be of service—it was impossible not to feel the enormous chasm between what was and what might have been.

The Van Hornes and Bettencourts of the world traveled in same circle, hoarding more than their fair share of power and wealth, and—in the rarified world of Manhattan money managers—were undisputed Hedge Fund Kings.

Except that I was in their world, too—or, more accurately for the moment, in their plane. Like Tristan and my Van Horne half-siblings, I had graduated from an elite New England boarding school and earned an Ivy League degree. But unlike any of them, I’d been hired by the hottest hedge fund on Wall Street. On my own merit, not because of my last name. I was more than just some pompous billionaire’s dirty little secret with my nose pressed against his glass window. So why did I still feel like a mismatched castoff?

My years at boarding school had been an education well beyond what I’d learned in the classroom. I may have gotten in as a faculty member’s daughter, but I’d become more than that. I’d been friendly to anyone who looked my way, and thankfully had the face and figure to easily pull off clothes that came from Target rather than Madison Avenue. Without any family obligations of my own, I’d been invited on Aspen ski trips in the winter, picking it up well enough to attempt all but the most difficult black diamonds, and sailed the Mediterranean in summer. I’d eaten sushi in Tokyo, crepes in Paris, oysters in Nantucket, and caviar in Moscow. I became the perfect chameleon; so good at blending into other people’s lives, it was impossible to determine where theirs ended and mine began.

Out of necessity, I learned how to fit in anywhere, become indispensable to anyone. With everyone but my own parents, of course. My family history resembled a shattered mosaic. None of the pieces seemed to belong together, especially mine. Maybe at one time it had formed a meaningful picture. Or maybe not.

Either way, I was ready to create a life of my own. Blending in was a skill I could keep in my toolbox, but it wasn’t going to be my motto. Not anymore.

Swallowing a frustrated sigh, I peered outside the window to my left, letting my eyes skim along the tops of the clouds. I’d always had a fascination with Greek mythology. The idea of gods and goddesses ruling the mortal world with mercurial powers was infinitely more interesting to me than the heroes and villains battling it out in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Every time I flew, I was reminded of Icarus, who’d soared too close to the sky on glued-together wings, plummeting back to the earth as his father looked on in horror. But never before had I felt so much like that ill-fated character.

The realization had me gripping the armrests so tightly, my knuckles were white. With a jerk, I let go, looking around to see if anyone was watching me. But no, everyone else was absorbed in either conversation or work. Feeling like a self-indulgent slacker, I pulled out my laptop and turned to a spreadsheet I’d been working on for Kyle. But I could barely focus. What would happen when Tristan and everyone else realized that I was flying high on wings slapped to my back with scotch tape and Elmer’s glue? How quickly would I plummet back to earth, among people who’d never seen the inside of a first class cabin, let alone a private plane? Who didn’t know the difference between a hedge fund and a hedgehog?

Was a night or two in Tristan’s arms worth risking my dreams? Casting a surreptitious glance his way, I tried to tell myself that the kick in my stomach was because of rough skies. But there was no turbulence in the air, it was all in my heart.