Dinner was served at 8:00. Filet mignon with truffle butter, roasted asparagus, and a wine selection that cost more per bottle than most families spent on groceries in a week. The ballroom hummed with the sound of silver on porcelain and conversations conducted at precisely the volume that signaled wealth without effort. Malcolm ate alone. The four other guests at his table had arrived, glanced at him, and chosen seats at the far end, clustered together like birds on a wire, leaving two empty chairs between themselves and Malcolm.
No one introduced themselves. No one asked his name. A woman in a blue gown adjusted her chair so that her back was angled toward him. A gesture so small and so deliberate that it said everything without saying a word. A man in wire- rimmed glasses unfolded his napkin, looked at Malcolm, and leaned toward the woman beside him. ""Do you think he knows anyone here?"" he whispered.
The woman shook her head. ""Clearly not."" Malcolm cut his steak. He chewed slowly. He drank his water. He listened to the conversations flowing around him. Mergers, vacation homes, private school waitlists, and he let the words pass through him the way riverwater passes through stone.
He had heard these conversations a thousand times at different tables in different cities with different faces that all wore the same expression when they looked at him. He did not try to make conversation. He had stopped trying 20 minutes ago. At the head table, Victoria Sinclair sat beneath a spotlight. She was flanked by Pamela Ashworth and a man named Bradley Whitmore, hedge fund manager, early 50s.
The kind of tan that came from a yacht and the kind of confidence that came from never being told no. Bradley had been watching Malcolm since the appetizer course, not with curiosity, with amusement. The way a child watches an insect before pulling off its wings. "Vic," Bradley said, leaning toward Victoria with his wine glass tilted at a careless angle. "Who's your friend over there?
The one sitting by himself like he lost a bet." Victoria glanced across the room. "No idea. Some crasher. Garrett couldn't find his name on the original list."
"You're kidding." Bradley grinned. "And he's still here? What's security doing?" "Apparently, he had some kind of invitation.
I told Raymond to watch him." Bradley shook his head and laughed. "This is what happens when you don't vet the door properly. Next thing you know, he'll be asking for a to-go box." The table laughed.
Pamela covered her mouth. A man across from Bradley, whose name nobody remembered later, raised his glass in a mock toast. To uninvited guests, he said, "May they find the exit." More laughter. Victoria smiled the way a cat smiles when it sees something small and trapped.
Garrett approached the head table and leaned toward Victoria's ear. ""Ma'am, I checked with the board's office again. His invitation is legitimate. It was added 3 weeks ago by the executive transition team."" Victoria frowned. "Transition team? What transition team?"