Mostly, Alexander and I were left in the care of nannies, some nicer than others. They knew we wouldn’t be checked on, and that freedom bred carelessness and neglect. I was glad when we were finally sent to America to attend St. John’s. Here, we’re all on an even playing field, a motley crew of sad, neglected, rich kids. Poor us.

I almost lament the fact that my time here is coming to an end. The real world is biting at my heels, ready to sink its teeth into me.

It’s the reason Papa is coming to St. John’s for Parents Weekend. He has plans for me now that I’m eighteen and graduating soon.

On Saturday, I set my alarm for 9:00 AM and go for one of my long swims. Then I come back to shower and shave. I’m careful with my appearance, picking out a black suit. Other kids will be dressed more casually for the picnic on the lawn, but Papa will expect me to dress well. After all, I’m a reflection of him.

My roommate Harrison groans and flips over onto his front so he can mash his pillow over his head to block out the noise.

His parents aren’t coming today. I asked, and the last time he heard from them, they were on a yacht in Cannes with bad cell service.

“Could you get the fuck out already so I can sleep?”

Ignoring him, I focus on fixing the cuffs of my shirt. I pride myself on dressing well, something Americans could learn from the French, to be honest. Even if my father didn’t own half the luxury menswear market, I’d still care about the fit of my clothes, style, and appearance. American men equate that with homosexuality, like a man is more of a man if his pants are baggy, if he hasn’t washed his face in three days.

I’m early to the picnic luncheon, scanning the thin crowd out on the main lawn, but I don’t spot my father yet. Musicians with string instruments are already playing. Waiters in matching uniforms pass around canapés as well as sparkling juice for the students, champagne for the parents.

Near the main building, I spot my father intensely discussing something with the headmaster, likely advising him on how he could better run his school. At his side is his assistant, Wilson, with his iPad at the ready. Older and severe, he’s been employed by my father since GHV’s infancy, and I liken him to a loyal valet. If my father were on fire, Wilson would throw himself onto the flames. He’s with him every waking moment. I have no idea what his salary is, but whatever my father is paying him, he should double it.

I stroll over toward them in an effort to rip off the Band-Aid. The sooner we begin this charade, the sooner it will end.

My father spots me when I’m a few feet away and dismisses the headmaster with a bored flick of his hand. As I approach, he takes me in, looking for any shortcomings. I think he’s disappointed he can’t find any—after all, I take after him so well. I could be a carbon copy, as tall and formidable as he is. We share the same black hair, the same dark eyes. He’s clean shaven so I can see the permanent dimples in his cheeks and chin, the same as mine.