89 days in Montana

To me, there were two kinds of problems in the world: real problems, and problems that could be solved with a credit card.

World hunger? Real problem. Global warming? Real problem. The fact that the waiter at The Mark Hotel kept pouring me champagne that was very obviously not the 2012 Moët & Chandon I’d requested for my VIP table? A problem easily solved with a wave of my hand and a few hundred dollars in tips.

Or at least, that was how my world used to work.

I was sitting on an emerald-velvet sofa that pricked the back of my thighs, surrounded by what Manhattan’s elite called an “intimate charity event.”

In practice, it was just an excuse for trust-fund kids to show off their haute couture while pretending to care about saving penguins, or coral reefs, or whatever the eco-friendly theme of the night happened to be.

Honestly, I hadn’t paid attention to the invite.

I was only there because the ballroom lighting was excellent for photos and because I needed a distraction before my trip to Las Vegas the next day.

“I swear to God, Blair,” said Chloe, my best friend, leaning across the table in a Saint Laurent dress that cost more than the waiter’s college tuition. “If this guy brings me one more glass of lukewarm prosecco, I’m suing the hotel for emotional distress.”

I gave a lazy smile, swirling the bubbly liquid in my crystal flute.

“No need to sue. We can just buy the hotel and fire him. It’s faster.”

Chloe giggled, tossing her platinum blonde hair over her shoulder.

I was twenty-two years old, had a skincare routine that cost more than some people’s annual salary, and possessed the absolute, unshakable certainty that the universe revolved around me.

Why would I think any differently?

Up until that moment, the universe had never given me a single reason to believe I wasn’t the center of it.

That was when my “credit card problem” started.

The event organizers were holding a silent auction. The grand prize was a white crocodile Birkin bag, an incredibly rare piece. There were maybe ten of them in the entire world.

I didn’t really need the bag. I didn’t even want it that much. But some plain, redheaded girl at the next table—the daughter of some real estate baron from New Jersey—was bidding on it. And I hated people from New Jersey.

I waved over the auction concierge, a woman in a black pantsuit who practically jogged to our table.

“Two hundred thousand,” I said, not even looking at her as I adjusted the strap of my silk slip dress.

The woman blinked. “Ms. Whitmore, the current bid is ninety thousand dollars.”

“I know. Two hundred thousand closes the auction immediately, doesn’t it? Put it on my card.” I opened my Chanel bag, pulled out my American Express Black Card, and handed it to her like I was handing out a flyer.

The woman nodded nervously and pulled a portable card reader from her blazer pocket. She inserted the card. We waited.

Beep. Declined.

I frowned, watching the red light blink on the machine. The screen glowed with an insulting message: Transaction Not Authorized.

“I think there’s a connection error, Ms. Whitmore,” the concierge whispered, clearly more embarrassed than I was.

“Obviously there is. Try it again.”

Beep. Declined.

An uncomfortable heat started creeping up my neck. Chloe stopped complaining about the champagne and leaned forward, her eyes curious: “Use your dad’s,” she suggested casually.

“This is my dad’s,” I muttered, opening my wallet again with a pang of irritation. “Fine, whatever. Run the Chase Platinum.”

The red screen seemed to glow brighter than it should have.

Declined.

For a second, I felt my stomach drop. The girl from New Jersey looked over at our table and gave a little smirk. That was worse than a slap in the face.

I kept my posture perfectly straight. I was a Whitmore. We didn’t panic in public.

“Your machine is definitely broken,” I said, using the coldest, sharpest tone of voice I could muster. I snatched both cards from the woman’s hand. “I’ll arrange a wire transfer directly with my wealth manager tomorrow. Have the bag sent to my penthouse.”

I stood up before she could reply, gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, and marched toward the women’s restroom.

As soon as the heavy oak door closed behind me, blocking out the soft jazz from the ballroom, I dialed my bank’s direct line. A 24-hour service for clients whose bank accounts had more than seven digits.

“Good evening, Ms. Whitmore. How can I help you?” the representative’s voice was velvety smooth.

“My cards are being declined,” I said quickly, pacing back and forth across the Italian marble. “All of them. I want this fixed now. I’m in the middle of an event.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. I heard the faint tapping of keys.

“Ms. Whitmore... I’m looking at your profile. I see that all cards and accounts linked to your name have been frozen.”

“A freeze? For fraud? Did they clone my cards again? I told you people to step up the security on this damn...”

“No, ma’am. It wasn’t fraud.” He cleared his throat. “The freeze order was issued by the primary account holder. Mr. Richard Whitmore. Just over half an hour ago.”

I stopped pacing. The silence in the restroom was deafening.

My dad had frozen my cards? That made zero sense. Yes, I had gone a little overboard the last few weeks, but it was my birthday month!

I mean, my actual birthday was last month, but the celebrations got extended. Booking the presidential suite at the Bellagio for tomorrow’s girls’ trip. The chartered flights. The dinners at Nobu. Three new bags just because. A late birthday gift—a Cartier watch for Chloe. Not to mention a few totally random online purchases at three in the morning.

Maybe the bank flagged the volume as suspicious and he just hadn’t had time to call and authorize it. Yeah, that had to be it.I walked out of the restroom, intending to call him, but I didn’t have to.He was right there.

Standing in the middle of the hallway leading to the VIP area, looking completely out of place among the festive crowd. Richard Whitmore. My father. Wearing one of his impeccable Tom Ford suits, his graying hair slicked back, sporting that corporate-shark stare he used when destroying rival companies. But he wasn’t looking at a rival. He was looking at me. And he looked exhausted.

My friends, who were following me down the hall, stopped dead in their tracks.

“Oh, crap,” Chloe whispered behind me. “Your dad’s gonna kill you, B.”

I rolled my eyes, straightening my posture.

“My dad doesn’t kill people, Chloe. He hires someone to handle it.” I took a step forward, forcing my best smile. “Daddy! What are you doing here? The penguin thing is downstairs...”

“Blair. We need to talk.” His voice was low, firm, and left absolutely no room for jokes.

He guided me into a private meeting room at the end of the hall and pulled the double doors shut behind us, muffling the sounds of the party. The room was cold, lit only by a luxurious chandelier.

I crossed my arms, already out of patience for the drama.

“Look, whatever the bank told you, it’s just their stupid algorithm acting up. You need to call them and unfreeze my cards. I just humiliated myself out there over some idiotic Birkin. Did you bring my backup card?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach into his pocket. He just kept staring at me with that unreadable expression. “No.”

I blinked, confused. “Then what do you want?”

“For you to stop.” He said it with a simplicity that gave me chills.

I let out a short laugh, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Stop what? Buying bags? Dad, please, I have a trip to Vegas early tomorrow, the girls are waiting, I do not have time for a financial literacy lecture right now. We’re not middle-class, don’t pretend my credit card statement even makes a dent in your account.”

He took a step toward me, and for the first time, I saw the tension in his jaw.

“I’m not worried about the money, Blair. I’m worried about you.”

“Dad? I’m doing great. My skincare is flawless, my mental health is excellent...”

“You are twenty-two years old,” he cut me off, his voice rising a half step. “You dropped out of three different colleges because you found the campus architecture ‘depressing.’ You don’t work. You don’t wake up before noon. You treat the staff in our building like they’re invisible. Last week, you almost fired your assistant because she bought the wrong brand of oat milk!”

“It was watery!” I defended myself, indignant. “And she was kind of incompetent. I did the job market a favor.”

My dad closed his eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened them again, he looked ten years older.

“Blair, you are completely disconnected from reality. You think the world is a shopping mall where everything and everyone has a price tag. You spend without thinking, you hurt people without caring, and you genuinely believe you can buy your way out of any consequence.”

I uncrossed my arms, feeling the anger heat up my cheeks. It was always this. The same old story.

“What’s wrong with spending?” I challenged, tipping my chin up. “You have money. You worked your whole life to have the money you have. Why on earth shouldn’t I use it?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Thick. I saw something shift in his eyes. The frustration gave way to a cold, terrifying clarity.

“That is exactly the problem,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “I gave you the world, and in return, I created a person with no value whatsoever.”

I took a step back. That stung. A lot. But I refused to let it show. Bite your lip, Blair. Don’t cry. Never cry.

“If you came here to insult me, you can leave now,” I said, turning my face toward the door.

“I didn’t come to insult you. I came to inform you.” He walked over to the door and put his hand on the knob, but before opening it, he turned back to me. “You are spending three months in Montana”

I blinked. And then I laughed. A real, loud, almost relieved laugh, because this was obviously a joke.

Montana? Where even was that? Near Canada? What was in Montana besides dirt, cows, and people who wore flannel unironically?

“Very funny,” I replied, adjusting my bracelet. “Seriously, good icebreaker. Now, about the cards...”

He didn’t laugh. His face was a stone mask.“You are going to live on an acquaintance’s ranch in northern Montana.”

My smile slowly died. The air seemed to get sucked out of the room. He was serious. My father, the man who always caved to my whims, was dead serious.

“For how long?” My voice cracked, faltering for the first time that night.

“Three months. Eighty-nine days, to be exact. You will have no access to your cards. Your accounts have been frozen. You have no social media, your cell phone plan has been canceled. You will work on the ranch to learn the value of a dollar. And the value of people.”

I felt an overwhelming urge to scream. This was absurd! A violation of my basic human rights!

“And if I don’t go?” I crossed my arms again, trying to keep up the tough-girl act. “What are you going to do? Drag me by my hair?”

“If you don’t go, Blair, your cards will stay frozen. Your accounts will stay frozen. Your trust fund will remain inaccessible. And from that moment on, you will find out exactly how much it costs to live in Manhattan without my money.”

I went silent. For the first time that night, I had absolutely nothing to say.

But, in the back of my mind, a voice laughed. He’s bluffing, I thought.He always bluffs.

Last year, I had accidentally backed into and shattered a fifty-thousand-dollar crystal ice sculpture at the Guggenheim gala because I had to stop in the middle of the staircase to adjust the buckle on my Louboutin heel.

What did my dad do? He sighed, pulled out his checkbook, and footed the bill. He loved me too much. He couldn’t stand to see me uncomfortable. This was just an empty threat to scare me.

I had a trip to Las Vegas.

My Louis Vuitton luggage was already sitting in the living room of my penthouse, packed with designer bikinis and slip dresses. He wasn’t going to ruin that.I decided to play along. If he wanted a show, I’d give him a show.

I gave a crooked smile, like someone who thought she had just won the game. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and walked up to him.

“Okay, Daddy. You win. I’m terrified. When do I leave for this awful ranch?”

Richard didn’t move a muscle. He just adjusted his suit button with the surgical precision of a man who had just closed the biggest, most ruthless deal of his life.

“Tomorrow,” he answered, his voice perfectly controlled.

I let out a little laugh, already pulling the door open to head back to the party, my thoughts already in Las Vegas. “Right. Tomorrow.”

“Your jet is waiting at the private hangar at eight a.m.,” Richard added, making me freeze in the doorway. He looked me up and down, and for the first time, I saw an almost sadistic, yet purely paternal gleam in his eyes. “Enjoy the champagne on board, Blair. It’ll be the last taste of luxury you have for a long, long time. Have a good trip.”

I rolled my eyes and marched down the hallway. Pathetic, I thought.

Las Vegas, here I come.

He wouldn’t dare. He never had. He just wanted the last word. Tomorrow afternoon, I’d be lounging by the Bellagio pool, laughing at this ridiculous threat.

Or, at least, that was what I thought was going to happen.