1
Bree
Imess with the hem of my borrowed cocktail dress and try not to look like I’m calculating exactly how many months of rent this fabric could cover. Sora swore the wrap style was “universally flattering,” but right now it feels like some big sign screaming I don’t belong here.
Speaking of Sora, she’s vanished into the crowd of the massive Tribeca loft, leaving me clutching a glass of something bubbly. I’m supposed to be her moral support while she networks, but mostly I’m hiding near a sculpture that looks suspiciously like a giant metal uterus.
Art, right?
The keynote starts.
At least it gives me something to stare at besides the women dripping in diamonds. A polished brunette in a navy sheath dress takes the stage. According to the printed program, that would be one Elspeth Caine. COO of... I squint at the tiny font... something-something. My eyes are already glazing over.
She launches into what has to be the most corporate savior TED Talk I’ve ever heard.
I sip my champagne but I’m already tuning out. I catch phrases as they drift past: “transformative impact” and “changing lives” and “leveraging innovation for social good.”
It’s all very noble, very shiny.
But I’ve been in enough of these rooms to smell this particular brand of billionaire philanthropy before. You know, the kind that functions mostly as conscience laundering.
By the time the speaker wraps up with statistics about... patient outcomes? Donor metrics? Honestly I stopped listening three minutes ago... because I desperately need to pee.
I set my empty glass on a passing tray and weave through the crowd, dodging conversations about impact investing and someone’s new yacht.
The bathroom signage is nonexistent, because apparently when you’re this rich you know some special code that guides you to the restroom. Or something.
I spot a discreet door tucked behind a velvet rope and slip through, expecting a hallway. Instead I walk into a private lounge. It’s cozy... you know, the dark leather, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the city lights kind of cozy.
Then I spot the single occupant. A man standing by the window with his back partially to me, his jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He’s tall, with dark hair kept short and precise, and a network of scars tracing the right side of his face that twists the tissue from cheekbone to jawline. That scar should make him less attractive, but somehow gives him this whole roguishlydangerous look, like a pirate who traded the high seas for a corner office.
He turns when the door clicks shut behind me, with one eyebrow raised in that universal expression of “what the hell are you doing in my space?”
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I was just looking for the bathroom? Or honestly just an exit from hedge fund small talk?”
He doesn’t say anything, just studies me with dark eyes that feel like they’re cataloging every detail for future reference. Then he pulls out his phone and starts thumbing.
“What are you typing?” I ask, because boundaries are apparently not my thing tonight.
“Just telling my security to give you a two minute head start,” he replies, completely deadpan.
I laugh, because obviously he’s joking. Rich people have such weird senses of humor. “Right. Because I’m clearly here to steal the silverware.”
He pockets the phone and picks up a glass of what looks like very expensive whiskey. “What do you think of the gala?”
I shrug. “Meh. All these companies with their grant programs and their ‘we’re changing lives’ speeches. It’s like corporate savior cosplay or something.”
His expression darkens. “Corporate savior cosplay.”
“Yes!” I’m on a roll now. “Like, I get it, the work matters. Helping people is legitimately amazing. But the way it’s packaged? All these rich people pretending they’ve wiped out suffering from the world for all time. It’s just... soul-polishing philanthropy. They get to feel good about themselves and write it off ontheir taxes.”
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “I see.”
I barrel on. “Honestly they should require name tags at these things so normal people can keep track of who to roll our eyes at.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize that the scars make his expression hard to read. “You think name tags would help?”
“Absolutely. Color-coded maybe. Red for ‘my private jet has a private jet,’ yellow for ‘I summer in places that don’t technically exist on most maps.’”
