Chapter 14

In the end, Lydia had left with all the songs they’d selected—twelve including “The Father Song.” She’d stayed in town for two weeks, finding a local studio willing to accommodate Jacob’s need for privacy, and together they’d produced the Father Song into something they were both proud of. Their collaboration had been seamless, each bringing their strengths—Jacob’s raw emotional honesty and melodic instinct, Lydia’s technical precision and performance experience.

While she flew back to Nashville to start her new life, Jacob returned to his old one, somewhat stunned at what had just happened. The viral moment eventually died down, though not before “The Father Song” had been released as a single and begun climbing the adult contemporary charts. Jacob had kept his end of the bargain, staying completely out of the public eye while Lydia handled the promotion and interviews, always crediting him as her co-creator with genuine respect.

Nine months went by. Jacob continued his routine—welding by day, playing at The Blue Note occasionally, busking at the farmer’s market on weekends. The only tangible difference in his life was the steady flow of royalty checks, growing larger as “The Father Song” found its audience and the album, titled “Watching You Fly,” gained critical acclaim and commercial success.

The money accumulated in his checking account, untouched. Jacob had no experience with wealth, no framework for what to do with it. His needs were simple—rent, food, art supplies, guitar strings, work clothing. The growing sum felt unreal, almost threatening in its potential to disrupt his carefully constructed life.

Which is how, on a crisp fall morning, Jacob dialed a number he hadn’t called in years. “Tommy,” he said when the call connected. “It’s Jacob Whitney. I need some help.”

They met at a quiet resturant on the outskirts of the financial district, a neutral ground between Jacob’s working-class neighborhood and Tom Wilks’ sleek downtown office. Jacob arrived early, as was his habit, securing a booth in the back corner where his scarred face would be less visible to other patrons.

Tom Wilks was a bona fide financial genius, a graduate of Stanford and MIT, now a rising star at one of the city’s premier investment firms. What most of his colleagues didn’t know was his background—the group home years, the struggles, the unlikely friendship with a scarred, silent boy who had become his protector and later one of his closest friends.

Jacob spotted Tom the moment he walked in—tall, black man, impeccably dressed in a tailored blue pinstripe suit that probably cost more than Jacob’s monthly rent. Despite the professional polish, Jacob immediately recognized the watchful eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders—habits formed early, never fully abandoned despite his success.

Tom’s face broke into a genuine smile when he saw Jacob. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just pure recognition and pleasure. “Jacob,” he said, sliding into the booth. “Man, it’s been what? Four years?”

“Five,” Jacob corrected, returning the smile. “Since you got the job at Meridian Partners.”

“Right, right.” Tom studied him for a moment. “You look good. Same, but good.”

Jacob nodded, acknowledging both the compliment and the tacit observation that his life hadn’t changed much. “You look successful.”

Tom laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “That’s one word for it.” He waved the waitress over, ordered coffee, then leaned forward. “So. You need help. Those aren’t words I ever expected to hear from Jacob Whitney.”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“This have anything to do with you suddenly becoming a hit songwriter?” Tom asked casually, his expression knowing.

Jacob blinked in surprise. “You know about that?”

“Of course, I know about that. Lydia Summers’ new album is all over the place, and your name is right there in the credits. ‘The Father Song’ is practically inescapable—it’s in commercials, on every radio station.” Tom shook his head, a hint of pride in his expression. “You couldn’t have mentioned this when it was happening? Had to let me find out when my assistant was playing it in the office?”

Jacob’s lips quirked in a slight smile. “It all happened fast. And you know how I am about attention.”

“Yeah, I do.” Tom accepted the coffee the waitress brought, waiting until she moved away before continuing. “So what kind of help does a suddenly successful songwriter need from a financial advisor?”

Jacob reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded bank statement. He slid it across the table without a word.

Tom’s eyes widened as he scanned the document. “That’s ... substantial. And this is just from royalties?”

“So far. There’s more coming. The album’s doing well, and Lydia wants to record more of my songs for her next project. Plus, other artists are asking about my back catalog.” Jacob ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty. “I do not know what to do with it, Tommy. It’s just sitting there.”

Tom folded the statement carefully, his expression shifting from surprised friend to professional advisor. “Okay. First things first. This money—it’s an opportunity, not a problem. But I understand why it feels overwhelming.”