Page 74

"How much of your life actually belongs to you?" I ask.

Ross leans back slightly.

"More than it used to."

"That's not really an answer."

"No," he says. "It's probably the most honest one."

I wait.

Ross takes a drink, then rests the glass against his knee.

"There are parts of my life that are mine because I insist they are. Where I live. Who I spend time with. What I do when no one needs anything from me. But there are other things that don't exist in isolation."

"Like what?"

"Marriage," he says.

"Children. Succession. Anything that affects the senior branch."

I look at him. "Senior branch?"

"My father's line," Ross explains.

"Eventually mine, assuming everything follows the structure it's always followed."

There's no pride in the way he says it. There's no resentment either. It's simply a fact.

"So marriage matters structurally," I say.

"Yes."

"In what way?"

Ross looks down at his glass before answering.

"Not because anyone gets to choose who I marry. That isn't how it works. But who joins the family matters. There are trusts, voting rights, inheritance structures, public implications. Children become part of that before they're old enough to understand any of it."

I go quiet.

Ross glances at me. "You asked."

"I know."

He reaches over and brushes his thumb across the back of my hand.

"Being born into this family means certain things are decided around you before you understand what they are. By the time you're old enough to question them, they already feel normal."

I think about the meeting earlier in the week. The lawyers, trustees, insurance people and family-office staff discussing one painting as though it sat at the center of a small government.

"And you never wanted out?" I ask.

Ross considers the question. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've wanted distance from parts of it," he says.