Chapter 1 - TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS
The cards stopped working on a Tuesday.
Julian Vance discovered it at a coffee shop on West Forty-Fifth Street, where he ordered the same thing he ordered most mornings without thinking about it.
Double espresso.
Oat milk.
One of those ridiculous little almond pastries he usually ate while answering messages.
The kid behind the register ran Julian’s black card once.
Then twice.
He turned the screen around.
DECLINED.
“Try it again.”
“I did.”
Julian pulled out another card.
Same result.
The barista looked at the line behind him.
Julian opened his wallet.
One five-dollar bill.
“Just the espresso.”
He paid.
No tip.
He felt guilty about that for approximately one block.
Then his phone buzzed with a notification from Chase.
ACCOUNT ACCESS RESTRICTED.
Another from American Express.
CARD SUSPENDED BY PRIMARY ACCOUNT HOLDER.
Then Bank of America.
Same.
Julian stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
People moved around him.
Suits.
Tourists.
Delivery bikes.
A woman shouting into AirPods.
Nobody cared that the financial structure of Julian Vance’s entire life had disappeared before 9:00 a.m.
His father had warned him the night before.
Julian had assumed it was theater.
Richard Vance liked theater.
Richard could turn ordering dinner into a shareholder meeting if he was in the mood.
They had been sitting beneath the brass pendant lights in the dining room of the East Seventy-Second Street townhouse where Julian had lived since he was fourteen.
Richard set down his fork.
“You don’t know what your life costs.”
Julian had barely looked up from his phone.
“I know New York is expensive.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Okay.”
Richard hated that word.
Okay meant Julian had heard sound but had no intention of absorbing it.
“How much was dinner last Thursday?” Richard asked.
“What dinner?”
“Exactly.”
“Dad.”
“The restaurant in SoHo.”
Julian thought.
“Four hundred?”
Richard stared.
“Twelve hundred and eighty-six dollars.”
“There were eight people.”
“And you paid.”
“It was Mason’s birthday.”
“With my card.”
“You told me to use it.”
Richard leaned back.
“How much is your apartment worth per month?”
“I don’t have an apartment.”
“You occupy the top floor of my house.”
“Because you asked me to move back after college.”
“How much would it cost?”
Julian shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“How much is your phone?”
“Dad.”
“Insurance on the Range Rover?”
“You bought the Range Rover.”
“Gas?”
“Seriously?”
“Health insurance?”
Julian laughed.
“Is this a quiz?”
Richard looked at him for a long time.
“That is the problem.”
Julian had rolled his eyes.
“What problem?”
Richard’s voice became quieter.
“You have never once looked at a number and wondered whether you can afford it.”
“Whose fault is that?”
The sentence came out faster than Julian intended.
Richard’s face changed.
“Mine.”
That should have stopped him.
It didn’t.
“Then congratulations. Mystery solved.”
Richard nodded once.
“Good.”
He picked up his fork.
“Tomorrow you get two hundred dollars.”
Julian laughed.
“For what?”
“Life.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means after tomorrow morning, I stop paying for yours.”
Julian had smiled.
“Sure.”
Richard looked at him.
“People will make sure you stay physically safe. Everything else is yours to figure out.”
Julian raised his wine.
“Very Succession.”
Richard did not smile.
The next morning, Rosa Alvarez handed Julian the envelope.
Rosa had worked for the Vance family for twenty-one years.
She had known Julian since he was nine.
She had packed his lunches after his mother died.
Sat beside him in emergency rooms.
Hidden birthday presents Richard forgot to wrap.
Told him when his girlfriends were rude before he was emotionally equipped to hear it.
That morning, she stood outside his bedroom holding a plain white envelope.
She would not look at him.
“What?”
“Your father asked me to give you this.”
Inside were ten twenty-dollar bills.
Paper-clipped together.
A note.
Julian,
You have $200.
Your phone stays active. Your health insurance stays active. Security will intervene only if you are in physical danger.
No car. No household staff. No credit. No company expense account. No access to my personal accounts.
You have until noon Friday to leave the townhouse.
Work, housing, food, transportation, and every ordinary cost are yours.
I am not doing this because I hate you.
That sentence almost made Julian laugh.
He kept reading.
I am doing it because I should have done something years ago.
—Dad
“He’s serious?”
Rosa looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“Since Sunday.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“He asked me not to.”
Julian held up the cash.
“Two hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“In Manhattan?”
“I am familiar with the geography.”
“This is insane.”
Rosa’s expression did not change.
“Probably.”
“You think this is okay?”
“No.”
He stopped.
“You don’t?”
“I think your father should talk more before he acts.”
Finally.
“Thank you.”
“I also think you should know what eggs cost.”
Julian stared.
Rosa walked away.
By noon Friday, the Range Rover was gone.
So were the drivers.
His cards remained dead.
His access to the family office had been removed.
The doorman had an instruction that Julian could visit the townhouse only by arrangement after Friday.
It was humiliating.
So Julian did what people with powerful fathers and wealthy friends do when they are suddenly inconvenienced.
He called someone else.
Mason Clarke answered on the third ring.
“Jules.”
“Need your couch.”
“What happened?”
“My father lost his mind.”
Mason laughed.
“Again?”
“No. Actually.”
Julian explained.
Silence.
Then:
“You only have two hundred dollars?”
“That is the current joke.”
“Come downtown.”
Relief moved through Julian.
“Thanks.”
“Dude, obviously.”
Obviously.
That word lasted thirty-six hours.
Saturday afternoon, Mason’s fiancée pulled Julian aside beside the kitchen island.
“How long is this for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mason has work.”
“So do I.”
She looked at him.
Julian had spent the year after college telling everyone he was “consulting” for Vance Urban Holdings.
In reality, he attended two strategy meetings a week, reviewed development decks when his father sent them, and received $8,000 a month through the family office.
“I’m figuring it out,” he said.
She smiled tightly.
“Maybe figure it out somewhere else.”
Mason drove him to the subway station.
“Don’t take it personally.”
Julian looked at him.
“I’ve paid for half your vacations.”
Mason’s face tightened.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“You’re already keeping score.”
Julian got out of the car.
Two hundred dollars became one hundred sixty-three after subway rides, coffee, a toothbrush, and two nights of delivery food he bought before realizing delivery food was now idiotic.
By Sunday evening, he had nowhere to sleep.
He called Richard.
Straight to voicemail.
He called Rosa.
She answered.
“I can’t give you money.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“Can I sleep at your apartment?”
Silence.
“Rosa?”
“Your father specifically told me not to house you.”
Julian laughed.
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Very.”
“Then ignore him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Rosa’s voice softened.
“Because there is something about this you don’t know yet.”
Julian stopped.
“What?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“That is incredibly helpful.”
“Find somewhere safe tonight.”
“With what money?”
“Use your head.”
She hung up.
Julian stood outside a twenty-four-hour diner near Union Square feeling anger move through him so hard he nearly called his father again simply to scream.
Then he saw a handwritten flyer inside the vestibule.
ROOM AVAILABLE — SUNNYSIDE.
Weekly.
No broker fee.
Call Mrs. Soto.
He called.
By midnight, Julian Vance was standing in a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens while a sixty-one-year-old Puerto Rican widow named Elena Soto explained that the room was $225 a week.
“I have one hundred sixty dollars.”
She looked at him.
“Then you do not have rent.”
“I can get a job tomorrow.”
“Everybody can get a job tomorrow.”
“I will.”
She looked at his shoes.
Italian leather.
His watch.
Patek Philippe.
Then his face.
“You running from drugs?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Woman?”
“Not currently.”
“Parents?”
Julian smiled without humor.
“Yes.”
Elena sighed.
“One hundred now.”
“I thought rent was two twenty-five.”
“It is.”
“Why—”
“Balance Friday.”
“Why trust me?”
She pointed at his watch.
“Because if you don’t pay, I keep that.”
Julian looked down.
“This is worth more than your apartment.”
Elena smiled.
“Then you should be motivated.”
He gave her one hundred dollars.
That left sixty-three.
His room contained a twin bed, one dresser, a window facing a brick wall, and a radiator that began banging at 5:12 the next morning.
Julian lay awake listening.
At 6:03, his phone buzzed.
Email.
From his father’s attorney, Nora Kaplan.
Subject:
DAY ONE.
Julian opened it.
One sentence.
Establish legitimate earned income within thirty days.
On Day 30, you will receive the first document your mother left regarding this arrangement.
Julian sat upright.
May you like
His mother had been dead ten years.
And somehow she was part of this too.
