The wrought iron gates, each one bearing the stylized ‘S’ of the Sterling family crest, slid open without a sound. The gravel of the half-mile-long driveway crunched under the tires of the Bentley, a clean, crisp sound that was the antithesis of the city’s constant hum. It was the sound of coming home.
Three days ago, I had been living in a shoebox apartment above a garage, meticulously budgeting for groceries and pretending that the scent of instant ramen was the smell of ambition. Now, I was gliding past manicured gardens and a private lake that shimmered under the afternoon sun. The sheer, overwhelming space of it all should have felt like a shock.
Instead, it felt like exhaling after holding my breath for three years.
My father was waiting for me not on the grand steps, but in his s
