“Mr. Karpov!” A silver-haired man in a charcoal suit approaches with his hand extended. “Wonderful to see you. And this must be your wife.”
Menlow shakes the man’s hand. “Richard, this is Kirsten. Kirsten, Richard Holloway. He runs the Holloway Foundation.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, summoning my best smile. “The foundation does incredible work. I read about your literacy initiative last year.”
Richard’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You follow our work?”
“I try to stay informed about organizations making a real difference. The numbers from your pilot program in Detroit were impressive. A forty percent increase in reading proficiency in just six months.”
Richard beams at me like I just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “You’ve done your research.”
“She always does,” Menlow replies, and I can hear the pride in his voice.
Richard launches into an enthusiastic explanation of their upcoming projects, including an expansion into three new cities and a partnership with local libraries. I nod along, asking questions at the right moments, genuinely interested in the answers. By the time we excuse ourselves, Richard is practically glowing.
“That was impressive,” Menlow comments as we move toward another group.
“I did my homework before we came. Googled the guest list and researched anyone who seemed important.”
“Of course you did. Always prepared.”
“Someone has to be. You didn’t give me much notice about this event.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished.”
The next hour is a marathon of handshakes and small talk. I meet donors who want to discuss tax benefits, board members who want to discuss strategy, business partners who want to discuss quarterly projections, and socialites who want todiscuss absolutely nothing of substance. Menlow introduces me as his wife every single time, and each time, a little thrill runs through me. Not because of the title itself, but because of the warmth in his voice when he says it.
A woman named Celeste corners us near the silent auction table and spends fifteen minutes complaining about her divorce attorney. A man named Harold tells us about his yacht for so long that I start to wonder if he’s being paid by the word. Another couple, whose names I immediately forget, wants to know all about our wedding, and I have to improvise wildly while Menlow watches with barely concealed amusement.
“It was very intimate,” I claim. “Just the two of us, really. We didn’t want a big fuss.”
“How romantic,” the wife sighs.
“Very,” Menlow agrees, squeezing my waist. “She swept me off my feet.”
I elbow him discreetly.
I catch snippets of whispers as we pass. “That’s her.” “The one from the office.” “Lucky girl.” “Or maybe he’s the lucky one.” “I heard she was just an analyst.” “Well, she’s certainly moved up in the world.”
I choose to focus on the positive comments and ignore the rest.
“Champagne?” Menlow plucks two flutes from a passing server and hands me one.
“God, yes.” I take a long sip and let the bubbles fizz on my tongue. “How do you do this all the time?”
“Practice. And a high tolerance for bullshit.”
“That explains a lot about your personality.”
He grins down at me. “Careful, Mrs. Karpov. That sounded almost like an insult.”
“Almost. But not quite.”
A woman in a red gown approaches, and I brace myself for another round of introductions. But she barely glances at me before launching into a monologue about some business deal she wants Menlow to consider. Something about a merger and tax implications and offshore accounts. I take the opportunity to sip my champagne and observe the room.
Everyone here is rich. That much is obvious. The jewelry alone could fund a small country. Diamond earrings catch the light as women toss their heads in laughter. Gold cufflinks flash as men gesture expansively. But there’s something else beneath the glittering surface. An undercurrent of competition. Of posturing. Everyone wants something from everyone else, and the smiles are just masks hiding the negotiations underneath.
