No Fixed Address

Frederico

In my experience, when your life falls apart, it does so with impeccable style.

Mine ended with a drone, a supermodel, and an inappropriate amount of Dom Périgno… which, honestly, tracks for a guy who once expense-accounted a weekend in Monaco as “competitive market research.”

“Frederico! Darling! This is absolutely divine!”

Svetlana Something-Unpronounceable air-kissed both my cheeks, her body glittering in a sexy red dress. My yacht party was in full swing, the Mediterranean night warm against my skin as I leaned against the railing of the Hoffman Legacy, all 120 glorious feet of it.

I flashed my trademark grin, the one my social circles always called “infuriatingly charismatic.”

“Only the best for the best, my dear.” I didn’t actually remember inviting her, but who cared? My parties were legendary enough that people invited themselves.

Below deck, the bass thumped hard enough to ripple the surface of my champagne. Above us, stars competed with the lights of the Côte d’Azur shoreline, and all around me beautiful people laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny. I was in my element. I was the golden boy of the Hoffman Advertising Empire, burning through my trust fund like someone who had never known consequences.

“Federico!”

I turned toward the voice, finding the source in Martine, my event coordinator, who was striding toward me with the determined look of someone about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

“It’s Fred-ER-ico,” I corrected, though I knew it was futile. Americans always butchered my name. “What disaster needs averting now?”

“The drone photographer is here.”

I grinned. “Perfect! Let’s get some aerial shots of all this decadence for Instagram. Father’s going to have an aneurysm when he sees how I’ve ‘damaged the brand’ this time.” I made exaggerated air quotes, making Svetlana giggle.

Martine didn’t smile. “He’s asking for the second half of his payment upfront. Says you have a... reputation.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Reputation? What the hell does that mean? Tell him I’ll triple his rate if he gets a good shot of everyone jumping into the water at midnight.”

“You want everyone to jump in the Mediterranean? In their clothes?”

“God no, Martine. Naked, obviously.”

Svetlana clapped her hands together. “Deliciously scandalous!”

An hour later, I was three (or was it four?) bottles deep, holding court near the bow with a cluster of models and one prince from somewhere I couldn’t remember but whose cocaine was exceptional. The drone buzzed overhead, its lights blinking as it captured my carefully orchestrated debauchery.

“To excess!” I toasted, raising my glass. “May we never know moderation!”

Everyone cheered. Someone pushed the latest hit album through the speakers, and I found myself dancing with a woman I vaguely recognized from a Versace campaign. Her perfume was intoxicating, her body warm against mine as we moved to the music.

“Frederico,” she purred against my ear. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for ages. Nadia speaks so highly of you.”

That stopped me. I pulled back slightly. “Nadia? Nadia Ferreira?”

She nodded, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “Our husbands are brothers. She says you’re... unforgettable.”

Ah. Now that was interesting. Nadia Ferreira was married to Victor Ferreira, one of my father’s biggest clients. Also, I’d slept with her last year at a charity gala while Victor was in Tokyo. Not my finest moment, but hardly my worst.

“Unforgettable is my middle name,” I said, pulling her closer, my hands sliding down her back, stopping at her ass. “And what did dear Nadia say, exactly?”

She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “That you’re exactly the kind of trouble I shouldn’t get into.”

I grinned against her hair. “She’s absolutely right.”

Above us, the drone buzzed closer, capturing our dance. I glanced up, giving it my best smolder, imagining how the shot would look on my Instagram: the bad boy heir to the Hoffman throne, dancing with a gorgeous woman under Mediterranean stars.

What I didn’t realize was that Alessandra Ferreira’s husband, Andreas, was currently watching the drone’s livestream feed from the upper deck as I danced with his wife.

Funny how quickly things can go from exclusive party to exclusive shit show.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

His voice cut through the music. I looked up to see Andreas barreling toward me, his face contorted with rage. Before I could process what was happening, his fist hit my jaw, sending me stumbling backward into a table of champagne flutes that shattered spectacularly.

“Andreas, stop!” Alessandra screamed, grabbing her husband’s arm as he prepared for another swing.

I scrambled to my feet, tasting blood. “What the fuck, man?”

“You were groping my wife!” He lunged again, but two of my security guards came in to hold him back.

“I was dancing! Jesus Christ!” I wiped my bleeding lip, looking around at the suddenly silent party. Every eye was on us, including the still-recording drone.

Alessandra was crying now. “It was nothing, Andreas! We didn’t mean anything! He didn’t know who I was!”

“Oh, he knew,” Andreas spat. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. This piece of shit has been working his way through every connected woman in Europe.”

I straightened my jacket, finding my composure. “Look, there’s been a misunderstanding. I had no idea Alessandra was your wife. Let’s all calm down…”

“Fuck you and your family,” Andreas snarled. “Victor was right about you. All flash, no substance. You’re a disgrace to the Hoffman name! Your father builds this reputation on integrity while his son behaves like a common whore.”

That stung. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it so precisely echoed my father’s favorite criticism.

“Security, please escort Mr. Ferreira and his wife to the shore boat,” I said coldly. “I believe they’re done for the evening.”

As they were dragged away, Andreas shouted over his shoulder: “You’re finished, Hoffman! I’ll ruin you!”

I forced a laugh, turning to the stunned crowd. “Well! Nothing livens up a party like a jealous husband, am I right? DJ! Turn it up!”

The music resumed, but the magic was gone. People whispered in corners, checking their phones. I knocked back another glass of champagne, ignoring the throbbing in my jaw and the sinking feeling in my stomach.

The drone continued to hover overhead, capturing it all.

“Three million views in less than twenty-four hours.” My father’s voice was arctic as he showed me his tablet on the gleaming conference table. “A new record, even for you.”

I didn’t need to look at the screen. I’d already seen the video: BILLIONAIRE HEIR GETS DECKED AFTER GROPING CLIENT’S WIFE! The clickbait title was inaccurate on multiple counts, but that hardly mattered now.

We were in the main conference room of Hoffman Advertising headquarters in New York, sixty-two floors above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed a view of Manhattan, but the atmosphere inside was claustrophobic. My father, Klaus Hoffman, stood at the head of the table, his steel-gray hair perfectly styled, his bespoke Tom Ford suit immaculate. My mother, Celeste, sat beside him, her posture rigid, her Hermès scarf artfully arranged to soften the severity of her black dress.

I slouched in my chair, sunglasses covering my bloodshot eyes, desperately wishing for a cup of coffee or, better yet, a Bloody Mary. The sixteen-hour flight from Nice had left me nauseous and dehydrated, my hangover a persistent jackhammer behind my temples.

“It wasn’t Victor’s wife,” I mumbled. “It was his brother’s wife. And I wasn’t groping her.”

My mother sighed. “As if that distinction matters, Frederico.”

“It matters to me! I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t make a move on Victor’s wife at my own party.”

My father’s eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. “So you’re admitting you would make such a move elsewhere? Perhaps more discreetly?”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Victor Ferreira has pulled his $140 million account,” my father continued. “Andreas has filed a formal complaint with the board. The stock dropped eight percent this morning.”

“It’ll recover,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “It always does. Remember last quarter when I…”

“When you were photographed doing cocaine with the daughter of our biggest competitor?” my mother interjected. “Yes, we remember. The board certainly remembers.”

I slumped further into my chair. “Look, I’ll call Victor. Smooth things over. Send some ridiculously expensive wine and apologize profusely.”

My father adjusted his platinum cuff links. “That won’t be necessary.”

Something in his tone made me sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“The board met this morning,” he said, his voice neutral. “You’ve been relieved of your duties as Creative Director, effective immediately.”

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. “You can’t be serious. Over a misunderstanding at a party?”

“Over a pattern of behavior that has become impossible to ignore or excuse,” my mother said, her Italian accent becoming more pronounced as it always did when she was angry. “This incident is merely the final straw.”

I looked between them, searching for a hint of bluff. Finding none, I shifted to damage control.

“Okay, fine. I’ll take a leave of absence. Lay low for a while. Maybe do that rehab stint you’ve been pushing for.” I forced a smile. “Good optics, right? Troubled heir seeks redemption?”

My father and mother exchanged a look I couldn’t decipher.

“It’s too late for that.” my father said. “Your access to the family accounts has been terminated. Your credit cards have been canceled. Your apartment, which is owned by the company, must be vacated by the end of the day.”

The room seemed to spin around. “You’re cutting me off? Completely?”

“Yes.” My mother’s voice was softer now, but no less resolute. “It’s time you learned the value of consequence, Frederico.”

“This is insane!” I stood up. “I’m your son! I’m a Hoffman!”

“Yes, you are,” my father said, his eyes locking with mine. “Which is why this is necessary. The Hoffman name used to mean something: integrity, quality, excellence. Your grandfather built this company from nothing. I expanded it into a global enterprise. And you...” He gestured to the tablet with the viral video still playing silently. “You have treated it like a joke.”

“I’ve brought in major accounts,” I protested. “The Lucent campaign was my idea. The rebranding for BlueWave…”

“Three years ago,” my mother cut in. “What have you contributed since? Besides scandals and embarrassment?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually worked on a campaign. My title as Creative Director had become largely ceremonial, a way to justify my exorbitant salary while I functioned primarily as the company’s mascot, throwing parties and schmoozing with celebrities.

“So what am I supposed to do?” I asked, hating the desperation in my voice. “Sleep on the street?”

My father shrugged. “That’s entirely up to you. You’re twenty-five years old, Frederico. It’s time you figured out who you are without the Hoffman fortune cushioning your fall.”

“For how long?”

“That depends on you,” my mother said. “When you can demonstrate genuine change, not just words, not just charm, but actual growth, we’ll reconsider.”

I laughed bitterly. “And how exactly am I supposed to prove that if I’m broke and homeless?”

“Figure it out,” my father said, standing. “Everyone else in the world does.”

My mother grabbed her bag, standing up to leave. The meeting was clearly over.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, following them to the door. “Mother? Father? This is cruel, even for you.”

My mother paused, her hand on the doorknob. For a moment, I thought I saw genuine sadness in her eyes.

“This isn’t cruelty, Frederico. It’s the only kindness we have left to offer you.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “You have so much potential. It’s time you discovered it for yourself.”

And then they were gone, leaving me alone in the conference room, my reflection fractured across the glossy table surface. I pulled out my phone, and I checked my banking app.

Account access denied.

I tried another.

Your session has expired. Please contact customer service.

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. They weren’t bluffing. My safety net, the infinite financial cushion I’d enjoyed my entire life, had vanished.

But I still had options. Friends. Connections. The black American Express card might be gone, but my charm and network remained intact. This was a temporary setback, nothing more.

I scrolled through my contacts, settling on Natasha Vale. My ex-girlfriend, yes, but we’d parted on decent terms. She had that massive penthouse in Tribeca, and she’d always had a soft spot for me. One call, a little of the old Frederico magic, and I’d have a place to crash while I sorted this out.

She answered my call. “Frederico? After all this time, why are you calling me?”

“Tash! Darling! How are you?” I infused my voice with all the warmth and charisma I could muster.

“I’m well.” Her tone was cool and distant. “I assume you’re calling because of the video?”

I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “God, no. Ancient history already. Actually, I’m calling because I miss you. I was thinking we could grab dinner tonight?”

A pause. “Frederico, we broke up over a year ago.”

“I know, I know. But doesn’t part of you miss the chaos? The fun?” I lowered my voice. “The other things we were so good at?”

Another pause, longer this time. “Are you seriously trying to sleep your way into my apartment because your parents cut you off?”

My stomach dropped. “How did you know?”

“It’s all over the news,” she said, her voice hardening. “Hoffman Heir Disinherited After Latest Scandal. Your father made an official statement an hour ago.”

Of course he had. Klaus Hoffman never missed an opportunity to control the narrative.

“Look,” I said, dropping the act. “I just need a place to stay for a few days while I sort things out. As a friend.”

“We were never friends, Frederico.” The words were precise, cutting. “We slept together for six months. You cheated on me twice that I know of. And now you want to crash on my couch because you’ve finally faced consequences for your actions? Not happening… And besides, my fiance would not appreciate having you here…”

“Wait, what? You’re getting married?”

“Yes, next year.”

“Tash, please… before you say no, can you at least talk to him, it’s just for a couple days…”

“Goodbye, Frederico. Good luck with... whatever comes next.”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone, the rejection stinging more than I expected. Natasha had been my safest bet. If she wouldn’t help me, nobody probably would.

I spent the next two hours making calls, each more desperate than the last. Old friends. Former colleagues. Even distant family. The responses ranged from awkward excuses to outright laughter. Word had spread quickly: Frederico Hoffman was toxic, broke, and persona non grata in the circles he’d once dominated.

By evening, I’d been denied access to my apartment building (“Sorry, Mr. Hoffman, but we’ve received instructions from the management company”), my gym (“Your membership has been... er... suspended”), and even the members-only club where I’d spent countless nights (“Perhaps try again when your situation improves, sir”).

As night fell, I found myself sitting on a bench in Central Park, still wearing my $5,000 suit from the meeting, a single duffle bag containing the few possessions I’d managed to grab from my apartment before being escorted out. My phone battery was at 12%, and I had exactly $232 in cash, the contents of my wallet when everything imploded.

A group of tourists passed by, laughing and taking photos of the park. A couple walked together along the path, lost in their own world. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that Frederico Hoffman, heir to a global advertising empire, fixture of Page Six, notorious playboy, was sitting alone on a park bench with nowhere to go.

The absurdity of it hit me all at once, and I laughed, a sharp, broken sound that startled a nearby pigeon. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been dancing on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Now I was contemplating which bench might make the most comfortable bed.

My phone buzzed with a notification. Probably another news alert about my spectacular fall from grace. Instead, it was a text from my father:

“This isn’t forever, son. Just until you find your way. The man you become through this will thank us.”

I stared at the message, a complex mix of emotions churning in my chest. Anger. Betrayal. Fear. And somewhere beneath it all, a tiny flicker of something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like the recognition of truth.

I typed back: “Fuck you.”

Then I turned off my phone to save the battery and leaned back against the bench, looking up at the narrow strip of sky visible between Manhattan’s towers. The stars were invisible here, washed out by the city’s relentless light.

For the first time in my life, I had absolutely no idea what to do.

***

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— Cat