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“That explains why you didn’t trust the ledger.”

“Partly.”

“And you studied at Northwestern, right?”

I smile. “Art history. Business Institutions minor. Enough business training to make private-client work practical and enough art history to make me insufferable at museums.”

“That sounds—”

He stops himself. I notice. His mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, as if he has reconsidered the sentence before finishing it.

I smile. “Go ahead.”

“No. I’ve learned discretion.”

“That’s new.”

His eyes narrow with faint amusement. I tell him about Northwestern, then about the year I spent working in London after graduation. I keep it brief, but he asks enough questions that I know he’s listening rather than simply waiting for his turn to speak.

Eventually, I turn the conversation back on him.

“What about you?”

Ross looks at me. “What about me?”

“Did you always know this was what you were going to do?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

I gesture vaguely toward the rest of the estate.

“All of it. The company. The family office. The responsibility.”

Ross looks toward the tall windows for a moment before replying.

“I don’t remember anyone ever asking me what I wanted to do.”

The answer is so matter-of-fact that it takes me a second to understand the weight of it.

“You mean because you were always expected to take over?”

“Expected to prepare for it,” he says.

“There’s a difference.”

I study him. He doesn’t sound resentful. That would almost be easier to understand.

“When did that start?” I ask.

Ross gives a quiet breath of laughter without much humor in it.

“Early enough that I can’t give you a date.”

I wait, and he continues.

“Board dinners before I understood half the conversation. Tutors who knew what universities I should be considering before I did. Summers split between whatever normal children were supposed to be doing and learning how the family operated.”

“You make it sound very structured.”