Nathaniel doesn’t rise to it. He simply draws me closer, arm firm around my waist. “That’s but one of the countless reasons I’m so enamored with her.”
His tone is unequivocal.
Anne’s jaw tightens. Richard’s laugh falters into something that sounds like clearing his throat. Across the hall, Charles catches my eye. He inclines his head once—a small gesture, but it feels monumental.
A bell chimes from the grand staircase, signaling the transition to dinner. The crowd begins to disperse toward the reading room, chatter rising again.
The Vanderhoofs drift away with the tide. As Anne passes, she leans in close enough to murmur something I don’t quite catch—but Nathaniel does. His expression hardens, a blade’s edge glinting beneath civility.
Then, as quickly as it appears, the sharpness is gone. He plucks the half-empty flute from my fingers, exchanges it for a fresh one from a passing tray, and offers me his arm. “Come on,” he says quietly. “They’re calling dinner.”
We move toward the staircase. The marble gleams beneath the chandeliers, every step reflecting a shimmer of gold. Camera flashes find us again—light blooming against stone, refracted through crystal. Nathaniel’s hand rests at my waist, steady, possessive. I angle slightly toward him, and for a moment the noise falls away.
From below, Anne watches—champagne untouched, her smile fixed too perfectly. A hairline crack splits through it, invisible to most but obvious to me.
Across the room, Charles’s gaze catches his son’s. A single nod. Pride, approval, something softer beneath it—relief, maybe.
And then the music swells, the crowd shifts, and we ascend into the next act of the night.
The Celeste Bartos Forumhas been remade into a ballroom of glass and light.
Candlelight flickers inside mirrored vases; crystal stemware scatters reflections across linen and gold. Above, the domed ceiling glows like a captured sunrise, refracting the chandeliers into a soft, perpetual dusk. I tilt my head back for a moment, tracing the curve of the glass—New York beyond it, glittering and far away. I’ve never been anywhere like this.
Tables arc outward from the small stage at the far end, arranged in discreet rings of power. The first holds the Caldwells—Renée radiant and poised, Charles beside her, Nathaniel at my right, and a circle of patrons who could underwrite entire orchestras without blinking. Beyond them, concentric circles of donors and critics shimmer in their own constellations of wealth. No one puts a name to the hierarchy, but everyone knows their place.
I take my seat beside Nathaniel, conscious of every movement. For the first few minutes, I’m all nerves and posture—aware of eyes, of etiquette, of the weight of the silverware. But the warmth at the table surprises me.
Renée leans across often, asking my thoughts on an arts-education program she’s championing. Her interest feels genuine, her smile never forced. Charles offers stories about past galas, dry and affectionate, the kind that make people laugh without needing to try. I realize, somewhere between the amuse-bouche and the first pour of wine, that they’ve grown comfortable with me. I can feel it in the ease of their glances, the lack of hesitation when they speak my name.
Nathaniel mirrors that ease—relaxed, luminous beneath the golden light. His arm rests behind me with the casual certainty of a man who knows exactly where he belongs in this pecking order and has no need to prove it.
Whenever the conversation tilts toward something I can’t quite follow—a new gallery in Tribeca, an avant-garde performance that sold out in minutes—he draws me back in with a subtle prompt, a question that opens the door again. His presence makes me brave. I start laughing more easily, even teasing back once or twice. The look in his eyes when I do—unmistakable pride, unabashed affection—feels like sunlight on skin.
Courses appear and disappear like a well-rehearsed play: a single scallop dressed in saffron foam, lamb crusted with herbs, a citrus sorbet sent out in curls of dry ice that spill across the table like fog. Conversation slows to a pleasant hum. Under the linen, Nathaniel’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line across my palm. For a breath, I think—this must be what belonging feels like.
Dessert plates are cleared. The lights dim by a shade, and the music recedes until only the faint whisper of bows on strings remains. A ripple of expectation passes through the room.
A man steps onto the small stage—tall, tanned, the kind of charisma that can hush a hall without raising his voice. The auctioneer. His smile flashes as he greets the crowd.
Servers move quietly between tables, topping glasses, collecting stray napkins. Guests remain seated, paddles ready. The first lot—a Picasso sketch—sparks an easy rhythm of bids. Bids echo across the room, each one delivered with the confidence of people accustomed to proving they can afford to care.
I watch, transfixed. It’s my first live auction, and the choreography fascinates me—the tilt of a paddle, the subtle nod that signals another ten thousand.
I lean closer to Nathaniel. “This still feels surreal to me.”
“Hmm?” He hums against my temple, the vibration of his voice brushing through my hair before he presses a kiss there.
“I keep thinking someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and ask what I’m doing here.” I look down at my hands in my lap. “Every moment feels like some kind of test.”
“Hey.” His fingers slip beneath my chin, coaxing my gaze back to his. “It’s not. But if it were, you’d have passed it long ago.” His anchors me with his eyes. “You never have to feel out of place, Olivia. Wherever I am—you belong.”
I can only nod in response.
The next lot draws murmurs—antique jewelry glittering under a narrow beam of light. Guests drift toward the displays between bids, admiring, pretending to debate. The room buzzes with conversation, the tempo languid but charged.
Nathaniel excuses himself—something about checking in with the event coordinator—and presses a quick kiss to my temple before stepping away from the table.
Before he’s even out of sight, a flicker of ivory catches my eye, cutting through the sea of black tuxedos and sequins. She drifts along the perimeter, posture elegant, movements calibrated for notice. No glass in her hand this time—just a clutch of silk and confidence. She pauses beside the display near our table, pretending to admire the diamonds under the spotlight. Her laughter carries a little too easily, polished to perfection, yet hollow at the edges.
