Blood tastes like rust and old pennies. Nathaniel didn't touch his jaw. He just stared at the woman who had struck him across the face in front of 400 elites. She thought she'd just disciplined a trespassing nobody. She didn't know she had just set two billion dollars on fire.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the ballroom like inverted wedding cakes, casting a fractured icy light over the crowd. The air in the room was heavy. It smelled of roasted bone marrow, truffles, and the sharp metallic undertone of anxious money. Nathaniel stood near a towering column wrapped in white orchids tugging at the collar of his rented tuxedo. He didn't need to rent it, of course.
He could have bought the entire hotel, fired the management, and bulldozed the building before dessert was served. But bespoke suits required fittings, and fittings required time. And time was the one currency Nathaniel hoarded with desperate paranoia. Ever since his wife died, every free second belonged to the six-year-old girl currently swinging on his arm. "Dad, it itches. " Hazel whispered, squirming in a navy blue dress that looked adorable on the hanger, but was apparently lined with sandpaper.
"I know, bug. " Nathaniel said, keeping his voice low. He knelt, his knees popping slightly, and adjusted the tulle skirt. "Just a little longer. We're doing a reconnaissance mission, remember? " Hazel's green eyes widened, catching the light of the chandeliers. "Like spies. " "Exactly like spies. " Nathaniel stood up and scanned the room.
The gala was a monument to excess, hosted by Hale Industries to celebrate their forthcoming acquisition of a massive infrastructure network. His infrastructure network. Veronica Hale, the CEO, was the darling of the financial press. The magazines called her a visionary. The trade papers called her a titan.
Nathaniel just called her a liability. He had spent the last 10 years building Sentinel Grid from a cramped garage into the backbone of the region's energy sector. He didn't care about magazine covers. He cared about grid stability, server redundancy, and getting home in time to read bedtime stories about dragons. When Hale Industries offered $2 billion to buy Sentinel, Nathaniel's board had practically wept with joy.
Nathaniel had remained entirely unmoved. He didn't trust people who wore their ambition like cheap cologne. So, he had RSVP'd to the celebratory gala under a pseudonym, bringing Hazel along because his regular sitter had called in sick with the flu. He wanted to see Veronica Hale in her natural habitat. He wanted to see how she treated the wait staff, how she spoke when she thought no one important was listening.
You learn a lot about a person by watching them navigate a room full of people they consider beneath them. A waiter walked past, balancing a silver tray of champagne flutes. Nathaniel didn't take one. He kept his hands in his pockets, feeling the familiar, grounding weight of a small plastic dinosaur Hazel had insisted he carry for protection. "Can we go see the ice bird? " Hazel asked, tugging on his sleeve.
She pointed toward the center of the room where a massive six-foot tall swan carved from solid ice was slowly melting into a silver basin. "Sure," Nathaniel said, "but we stay close, okay? Don't touch the ice. You'll freeze your fingers off and then I'll have to put you in the microwave. " Hazel giggled, a bright, clear sound that cut through the low murmur of venture capitalists and hedge fund managers. A few people turned to look at them.
Their gazes swept over Nathaniel's off-the-rack tux and Hazel's slightly rumpled dress, calculating their net worth and instantly dismissing them. Nathaniel smiled to himself. Invisibility was a superpower. They navigated the crowded floor. Nathaniel kept a protective hand on Hazel's shoulder, guiding her gently around knots of people arguing over interest rates and offshore accounts.