Wouldn’t be the first time someone believed the Rutherford last name meant something.
Besides, my family isn’t a stranger to these types of events. My entire family is one of the richest in the city, so events like these are something I’ve been a part of probably since I was like seventeen or eighteen.
I exhale slowly.
“Fuck it.”
The words come out before I can talk myself out of them.
I grab the card again, sliding it back into the envelope.
One night.
One weird mystery event.
Then I go back to my ordinary, boring, miserable life.
No harm done.
I push away from the counter and head toward my bedroom, already thinking about what I could possibly wear to a place like that.
Halfway down the hall, I pause.
The strange feeling creeps over me again.
Like I’m standing at the edge of something.
Like a door just opened somewhere in the dark.
And once I step through it…
There’s no going back.
****
I stand in front of my closet for a long time before I actually touch anything.
Calling it a closet is generous. It’s more like a narrow slice of drywall with a crooked rod and six hangers that slide together whenever I move them. Half the clothes hanging there don’t even belong in the same category anymore—faded shirts, a jacket with a loose lining, jeans that have been washed so many times they’ve forgotten their original color.
It’s a far cry from what I used to have.
Back then, closets weren’t closets.
They were rooms.
Entire rooms dedicated to clothes I barely remembered buying. Tailored suits. Italian shoes that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Garment bags from Paris, Milan, London.
I used to complain about fittings taking too long.
Now I’m standing barefoot on a cold apartment floor debating whether a black shirt with a slightly frayed collar still counts as “nice.”
Life’s funny like that.
I slide the shirt off the hanger anyway.
It’s the best thing I own.
Dark charcoal button-up. Slim cut. The fabric still feels expensive when I run my fingers over it, even if it’s a few years old now.
