“It kind of is,” Wesley admits. “But with judgmental relatives instead of docents.”
“Great.”
His mom swats his arm. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice. I wore the good blazer.”
We climb the steps together. The brass knocker gleams in the sun, the planters explode with cultivated spring.
I breathe. “Ready?”
Anne straightens her dress. Tom tugs his collar one more time. Wesley grins at me, steady and sure despite the chaos.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
Gideon opens the door before we knock. He’s been doing this for twenty years and can smell nervous guests from three blocks away.
“Miss Preston. Mr. Kane.” His gaze shifts, assessing and welcoming in equal measure. “And Mr. and Mrs. Kane. Welcome.”
Wesley’s dad mutters under his breath, “Does he live here?”
“Tom,” his mom hisses.
“Just asking.”
We step into cool stone, curated art, and an elaborate orchid arrangement. A piano playlist drifts from hidden speakers—precise, expensive, the kind of classical that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to.
Wesley’s mom stares at the ceiling, the chandelier, the marble staircase curving upward. “Oh my.”
“It’s just a house,” I murmur.
“It’s the Met,” she breathes.
“With worse lighting,” Wesley adds, trying to be helpful.
His dad stops in front of a painting—abstract, enormous, probably worth six figures. He tilts his head. “What is that supposed to be?”
“Art,” Wesley chuckles.
“Looks like someone spilled.”
“Expensive spill.”
“Jesus.”
The dining room gleams ahead: one wall of windows drinking in spring light, a lacquered table that seats twelve without effort, heavy silver that’s been polished to a mirror shine, bone-colored linens that have never seen a coffee stain. Staff move like ghosts, lifting lids, pouring water, existing and not existing in the way only truly excellent household staff can pull off.
Lidded dishes breathe steam and butter. A pastry tower rises beside smoked salmon arranged like art. Fresh fruit glistens. There’s something green in a crystal pitcher that looks both virtuous and punishing.
Wesley’s dad stops in the doorway. Stares. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Tom,” his mom warns.
“Josephine.” Mother rises from her seat at the head of the table—pale blue silk, pearls, hair swept into an elegant knot that looks effortless but I know took at least thirty minutes. She crosses to us with the grace of a woman who’s done this a thousand times and could do it in her sleep.
She air-kisses my cheek with GPS precision, then turns to Wesley. “Glad you could make it.”
“Serena,” he says, careful and respectful, because we drilled this.
