She leans closer to whisper in my ear. "Don't mention the environmental bill to Mr. Kowalski."
Mr. Kowalski’s handshake is firm, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I paint a sweet expression on my face that I owe to my years of practice.
"Mr. Kowalski, such a pleasure to see you again." I keep my voice warm but professional. “How are your grandsons? Still playing football, I assume?”
"As a matter of fact, they are," he says carefully, but I can tell I struck a chord and a good one. "It’s incredibly kind of you to remember them. I hope your mother knows how lucky she is to have a daughter like you."
There's a tension in his voice that makes my stomach tighten slightly, but I maintain my smile. I’m no fool, and I know not all those in attendance are friends. My mother likes to keep her enemies as close as her friends.
"I’m sure she does."
His nod seems satisfied, and I catch Caroline's subtle exhale of relief. She doesn’t have to drag me away to move to the next cluster of donors, where an older human lady entertains a group of pixies, laughing about something I didn’t catch. She excuses herself from the group at our approach, and my brain scrambles to remember her name. It fails, and I cast a quick, panicked glance at Caroline.
“Mrs. Chen loves talking about her granddaughter.” Caroline gets the hint as we get close. “Ask her about Princeton.”
Mrs. Chen practically glows when I approach, and this conversation feels the most natural of the three.
“Mrs. Chen! How wonderful to see you.” I kiss both her cheeks, taking in her sweet and subtle perfume. “How is Lily settling in at Princeton?”
"Oh, Rona, she absolutely loves it!" Mrs. Chen beams, pulling out her phone to show me photos. "She's thinking about majoring in political science, actually. Says your mother inspired her during that campus visit last spring."
My smile becomes genuine for the first time this morning. "That's incredible. Tell her I'd love to talk to her about the program sometime. I remember what it was like trying to navigate all those choices."
"You're such a thoughtful young woman," Mrs. Chen says, patting my arm. "Your mother raised you right. And what about your own studies, my dear? You should be close to getting your Master of Fine Arts by now."
My smile freezes on my face, and it takes physical effort to keep it there.
“I’m no longer studying arts.” I try not to wince as Mrs. Chen’s face drops. “But I’m very happy now with my business major. I’m graduating this spring, actually.”
Mrs. Chen nods understandingly, but I can see what she thinks. That I dropped out. That I abandoned my passion. It’s far from the truth, but the truth doesn’t matter. I did as I was told, as usual. In the end, my mother convinced me that pursuing my dreams was the surest way to end up in the unemployment lines.
I don’t have time to dwell on this, though. Caroline is already pulling me along to the next group of people. We keep moving, fluttering from person to person, from chitchat to chitchat. Each interaction requires a slightly different version of myself, more formal here, more personal there, always calibrated to what Caroline has whispered in my ear moments before. Faces blur and names become meaningless as I play my part. I don’t really mind it. It’s like playing a role in a movie, pretending I’m someone else.
If only I was able to stop and be myself when the cameras weren’t running.
I move from table to table, my practiced grace carrying me through handshakes and small talk.Thank you so much for your support. Mom is thrilled to have you on the team. Yes, I'm loving my senior year at Cornell. Political Science is my major, just like Mom.
The lies come as easily as the truth, all delivered with the same warm smile.
Caroline hovers nearby, making subtle corrections to my posture when I lean too casually against a chair, adjusting my tone with a glare when I laugh too loudly at someone's joke. I feel the familiar weight of being watched, evaluated. Managed.
"Rona, darling!" Mrs. Patterson, a longtime family friend, pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and political ambition. "You look absolutely radiant. Your mother must be so proud."
Ugh. I’m so tired.
“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson.” I plaster a smile back on my face. “She's grateful for all your support over the years.”
"Of course, dear. We believe in what she's doing. Someone needs to hold these tech companies accountable."
I nod and smile, even though I'm not entirely sure I understand all the implications of Mom's Digital Integrity and Transparency Act. Something about labeling manipulated media and making social platforms verify content or holding them accountable for spreading deepfakes and the like. Important stuff, apparently, judging by how much money people are willing to donate to support it.
"Rona Quinn."
The voice behind me is deep, measured, and carries the kind of authority that makes people automatically straighten their spines. I turn to find myself looking up—way up—at one of the most imposing figures I've ever seen.
I know who he is without Caroline needing to say anything.
Cassius Roarke is the very definition of a tech mogul. A minotaur, he towers over most people at almost seven feet tall in his immaculate charcoal suit, his polished horns shining and smooth. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and has the kind of confidence that suggests he's never met a problem he couldn't solve with enough money and the right connections.
