Chapter 30 FINANCE. SIX-FIVE. BLUE EYES.

Chapter 30 FINANCE. SIX-FIVE. BLUE EYES.
RYAN

"Let's say a client asks us to value a company that hasn't generated positive earnings yet," I begin, meeting the associate's eyes across the table. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I wouldn't rely on P/E multiples, obviously. I'd focus on revenue multiples—EV/Revenue—and benchmark against high-growth peers in the same sector. I'd also consider a DCF, but base it on top-line growth projections and operating leverage assumptions, making sure to pressure-test the margin expansion story."
I pause, searching their faces. Nothing. Just pens moving.
The VP sitting across from me tilts his head. "Okay, but what if the company is burning cash? Would you still trust the DCF?"
My heart lurches, but I keep my tone even. "Not on its own. The DCF would be highly sensitive to assumptions, so I'd use it as a secondary check. The more defensible approach would be comparables—especially looking at how the market is currently valuing similar loss-making companies. Then, I'd cross-reference with precedent transactions to see what strategic buyers have actually paid in M&A, since that often reflects synergies or long-term bets."
A slight nod from one of the analysts—small, but I catch it like a lifeline.
The analyst's pen stops moving, and that flicker of acknowledgment steadies me for all of two seconds. Then the silence rushes back in. I can feel the weight of it pressing down, like the walls of the Midtown office are leaning closer.
I remind myself: silence isn't necessarily rejection. It is just...space. They're giving me rope—to hang myself or to climb.
I fold my hands together under the table so they can't see my thumbs circling over each other. Fynn always told me Goldman interviewers love control. Don't give them an inch of panic. Stay calm, stay crisp, stay commercial. His voice in my head is more suffocating than reassuring, but I cling to the words anyway.
The VP flips his pen between his fingers, eyes narrowing slightly. "And where do you think the market is overvaluing right now?"
A question I've rehearsed a hundred times. But still, my stomach knots. If I sound too polished, they'll think I'm reciting flashcards. Too hesitant, and I'll look underprepared.
"Tech valuations have cooled," I start, careful not to rush, "but certain sub-sectors—AI infrastructure, for instance—are still trading at revenue multiples that assume near-perfect growth and adoption curves. In my view, the market may be overestimating the speed of monetization." I pause deliberately, force myself to inhale. "At the same time, energy transition names, particularly in renewables, are trading at discounts despite strong policy support. The disconnect between fundamentals and multiples suggests opportunities for strategic buyers who can afford longer horizons."
The associate's expression barely shifts, but I think I catch the slightest lift at the corner of his mouth. Or maybe it's all in my head.
I can hear my brother's voice from two nights ago, drilling me over Zoom: Don't hedge every answer, Ryan. Say it like you own the deal. Easy for him—he's been closing them since his second year out of Wharton. Legacy means you don't just carry a name; you carry every deal dinner conversation, every late-night model fight that echoes through the family. No pressure, right? Just Goldman expecting me to fit like a puzzle piece they've seen before.
My mouth is dry, but I force a sip of water only when the VP leans back, scribbling something in his notebook. Timing it so it looks casual, not desperate.
"Alright," he says finally, "walk us through how you'd structure a sell-side process for a mid-market client."
I nod, heart rate spiking again. This one I know cold. I've got this, I tell myself. I've been living and breathing this since before I knew what EBITDA stood for.
"Walk us through how you'd structure a sell-side process for a mid-market client."
The words land with the weight of a gavel.
I nod, once, like I expected it, like I've rehearsed this in front of my bathroom mirror a dozen times—which I have. But my chest is tight anyway. Mid-market. Sell-side. This is the question that separates the guide-memorizers from the people who get it.
My eyes flick to the glass wall, where the blurred outlines of other teams move like shadows. I remember my father's stories—late nights in rooms just like this one, running auctions, juggling bidders, managing egos that made deals collapse over commas. "The sell-side is choreography," he always said. "Miss one step, you lose the whole dance."
My palms are slick under the table, hidden by the portfolio on my lap. I shift just enough to stop my heel from bouncing. If they notice nerves, they'll mark me down. If they notice overconfidence, they'll crucify me. Thread the needle.
I hear my brother again—his smug tone after sending me the outline: Teasers, NDAs, CIMs, data room, management presentations, first round bids... You know the drill, Ryan. They'll know you're a legacy the second you walk in. Don't embarrass us by sounding rehearsed.
Legacy. The word sits heavy, sour. Like it's branded across my blazer. I wonder if they can smell it on me. That I'm here not just as myself, but as a continuation of them—my father, my brother, my aunt at Morgan Stanley. This isn't just an interview. It's an audition to see if I belong to the family business, or if I'm just wearing the name like an ill-fitting suit.
I take another small breath, steady, measured. If I launch too fast, they'll think I'm on autopilot. Too slow, they'll think I'm stalling.
So, I hold their gaze for half a second longer than is comfortable, nod again, and part my lips—
And that's when the VP glances at his watch. The signal. Time's up.
The question hangs in the air, unanswered, like a note caught in the throat of a song. I close my mouth softly, forcing a professional smile that feels more like a grimace. The associate thanks me for coming in. The analyst shakes my hand with the same neutral grip he probably gave the ten other candidates today.
It could have gone either way. I know my answers landed solid, but not dazzling. I didn't stumble, but I didn't soar either. Maybe that's enough. Maybe not. Goldman doesn't play in maybes.
Back outside on Broad Street, the air hits colder than I expect. New York always has that way of pulling me into old memories. I can see Dad in the office window of my childhood—the one with the green banker's lamp—where he'd sit night after night, red-penning memos and combing through prospectuses. Sixteen-hour days, minimum. A capital markets lawyer with more files than family. It made forgetting he had kids almost effortless.
Is that the life I want? God, I'm not sure. The money, the prestige—I understand it all too well. But the hours? The way it hollows you out until you're nothing but deals and deadlines? I don't know if I can stomach it. Then again, what else is there for me?
I'm not going back to the track anytime soon.
Sean had floated the idea once—working with other athletes, maybe coaching. And yeah, it's a good idea. On paper, it makes sense. But the cruel truth is I can't imagine coaching someone else to live the dream I lost. Running wasn't just a sport; it was my refuge. My salvation. Especially after Mom passed.
Theo had football. Fynn had hockey. And me? I was built to push my body, one spike at a time, until the world blurred into silence. It did its worst after the cancer, after the grief, but it was mine. Running feels as much a part of me as breathing.
Just like numbers do. Stats. Analytics. Inputs, outputs, metrics, goals. Things I can line up, test, control. Maybe there's something in that—that need for clarity, for measurable progress. For control.
Control of everything, at all times.
All times but when I'm with Sean.
And that's the thought that stays with me, long after the Goldman lobby doors close behind me.

〰️〰️〰️

Fynn's apartment smells like sandalwood and tobacco – a weird combination, if you ask me, but somehow very Fynn-like. It's the smell of someone who is busy enough to hire someone to clean for him, and someone who wears a very expensive suit and aftershave.
He tosses me a water bottle and leans against the counter, hoodie half-zipped, his hair still damp from a shower. "I'll drive you to the airport in the morning," he says. It's not a question.
"I can Uber," I reply, twisting the cap but not drinking.
"Not happening." He folds his arms, that same stubborn tilt to his chin he's had since he was old enough to boss me around on the playground. "You're stuck with me."
Which means I'm also stuck with the questions.
The interview hangs over me like a storm cloud, too fragile to touch. Talking about it feels like tempting fate. Jinxing it. And yet, with Fynn, silence is never an option.
"So." He drags the word out, letting it sit there like bait. "How was Goldman?"
I peel the label off the bottle, strip by strip. "Fine."
"Fine?" He laughs, low and skeptical. "You've been prepping for weeks, Ry. You don't pull all-nighters for fine."
I roll my eyes. "It could go either way."
"That's not an answer."
"Well, Fynn-Air...It's the only one I've got."
He studies me for a moment, the same way he used to at track meets, timing my stride, making sure I wasn't burning too fast too soon. There's care in it, hidden under the scrutiny.
Finally, he softens. "You know Dad's shadow isn't the only one you're running in."
The words sting even though he means them as comfort. Dad. His sixteen-hour days. His red pen on memos, never on our report cards.
I push a breath out through my nose. "I just... don't want to talk about it until I know. Okay?"
Fynn nods once. He lets the silence hang, then cracks it open with a crooked grin. "Fair enough. But I'm still calling it— you crushed it. And if they don't see that, screw 'em."
I laugh despite myself. "Yeah, let me try that line in a cover letter."
He smirks, then tilts his head. "Speaking of cover letters... when were you planning to tell me about Sean?"
My stomach flips. "How's that even related to Sean?"
Fynn shrugs, casual but not. "Don't play dumb. The guy's basically glued to your side at the house, and on every story or post you seem to appear. Even Theo noticed."
"He's just...it's complicated, ok?" The words tumble out too fast, and even I don't buy them.
"Mm." Fynn drags the sound out, grinning wider now. "A complication who carries you around when you're injured, stays up late quizzing you for interviews, and—what was it Theo said?—looks at you like he's about to drop to one knee every time you walk into the room?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Theo exaggerates."
"Not by much." Fynn's grin fades into something gentler. "Look, Ry. You don't have to have everything figured out yet—but maybe let yourself have something that's just good, no pressure attached. You deserve that."
I blink at him, the warmth of his words tugging at something soft in my chest. Which is exactly why I can't leave it hanging there.
"Wow," I say, deadpan. "Deep stuff, Dr. Phil. Remind me again how your own love life is going?"
His ears flush instantly—bullseye.
He shifts on the counter, straightening like he's about to play defense in a game. "My love life is... fine."
I grin. "Fine? You just grilled me for giving you that exact answer. Fine doesn't cut it, Fynn. Names. Details. Come on."
"There are no names." He grabs his water and takes a long sip, like it's a shield.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, narrowing my eyes. "Uh-huh. So who's been blowing up your phone during practice? Don't think I didn't see you sneak off to the hallway last night."
He sputters. "That was—no one important."
"Uh-huh." I draw the syllables out, savoring them. "Does 'no one important' usually make you smile like an idiot and then immediately pretend you weren't smiling when you come back in?"
Fynn groans and scrubs a hand over his face. "God, you're insufferable."
"Occupational hazard of being your sister," I shoot back, smirking. "Now spill. Or I'll text Theo and let him know you're keeping secrets. You know he'll hound you until you crack."
His head falls back against the cabinet with a dramatic thud. "You're evil."
"Correct." I pop the 'p,' victorious. "So, what's her name?"
He mutters something too low to catch, and I laugh, the sound pulling the tension out of my chest in a way nothing else could.
His head falls back against the cabinet with a dramatic thud. "You're evil."
"Correct." I pop the 'p,' smug. "So, what's her name?"
He mutters something I can't catch, too low and too fast.
I lean in, cupping a hand to my ear. "Sorry, didn't quite hear that, Mr. 'Fine.' Wanna try again?"
"Drop it, Ry." He shoots me a look that's half warning, half amused.
I grin wider. "Oh, this is rich. I bet she was looking for a guy in finance, six-five, blue eyes AND a trust fund?"
He shakes his head, biting back a smile. "You're impossible."
"Mm, and yet you're stuck driving me to the airport at six a.m.," I remind him, stretching my legs out on the couch. "Which means I get prime interrogation time. Hope you're ready for round two."
He groans again, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with the start of a grin. "God help me."
"God can't save you, Fynn," I say, leaning back against the cushions, smug and warm. "I'm your sister."
The laugh that bursts out of him is quick and unguarded, and for the first time all day, the tension in my shoulders finally loosens.