The essays were a far cry from quality literature, but each one told a story and showed him proof that good humans still existed. The words on those pages were glimpses into real people’s souls.
Flipping open the folder, he skimmed the first few applications, only giving them a surface glance.
“Daisy Burdan. A twenty-two-year-old laundress in London. No criminal record,” he read aloud.
“There are a few in there with records.”
“That doesn’t bother me. Sometimes people have no other choice but to break the law. Not everyone is privileged enough to escape the penalties.” He shut the folder, deciding to save the finer details for later when he was alone.
“I’ll forward my approved list by week’s end.”
“Perfect. The official invitations should reach them by month's end. There are a few we're still vetting. Cross-referencing addresses and account information to make sure nothing is off.”
Jack didn’t question how they hacked into such private data. Experience showed him the Volkovs were sticklers for detail and experts in both digital and physical security. He trusted them to get the job done.
“Emerald card? Gold seal? Full presentation as usual?” Ash asked.
“Simple and elegant.”
Once they had the guest list covered, they reviewed venue preparations. Jack toured the ballroom where the masquerade, better known as The Wrecking Ball, would take place. Chandeliers were being dusted and rehung by silent staff working diligently to see to every preparation. The black marble floor reflected like dark water.
Ash noted the various areas that would be transformed for the event. “The does and stags will arrive by limo and be presented from the veranda as usual. The hunters will be well on their way by that point, having enjoyed several hours of libations prior to the ball.”
Jack paused long enough to draw one servant’s attention. “You’re doing lovely work,” he said softly, and the servant quickly dropped their gaze.
Ash’s detailed description of the ball faded as he looked peculiarly at Jack.
Jack, as always, deflected any comment by maintaining control of the conversation. “The hunters—walk me through the confirmed list.”
“Of course. Forty-seven confirmed, twelve pending.” Ash handed him the list. “The usual crowd.”
Jack glanced at the list, his inspection snagging on one name in particular. “Hadrian Welles,” he read with distaste. “His behavior last year caused some concern.”
“He is aggressive prick,” Hunter corrected in his thick Russian accent. “He behaves badly again, his invitation is revoked. Permanently.”
Hadrian Welles was fifth-generation wealth, the kind who believed power, once inherited, led to irrevocable entitlement. He couldn’t be more wrong.
“Let’s hope our comrade is smart enough not to cross any lines,” Stone said. “We keep a close eye on him. You will be impressed with our security upgrades.”
“I look forward to seeing what you’ve done.”
Men like Welles were why Jack created the Feast. Not to serve them. To expose them.
He continued to skim the list. “Peter Pangbourne? That honeymoon was short-lived.”
“What honeymoon?” Stone laughed. “He is still not married.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “Even if he was, he’d still attend the feast. Peter Pangbourne is a man who refuses to grow up.”
“His future bride will only put up with so much,” Stone continued, implying he had personal experience with Peter’s perpetual fiancée.
Shortly after they returned to the study, dainty footsteps approached. The three brothers stood in unison, and Jack followed their gaze to the door.
A small blonde in a cashmere sweater dress stepped in carrying a tray. “Sorry to interrupt.” She grinned cheekily. “But I wanted to.”
Ash took the unnecessary tray of fruit and coffee and set it aside. “Thank you, printsessa.”
Hunter scowled. “Very clever, Lisichka. But you still disobeyed us.”
