The Astor estate did not belong in the same reality as Dean’s apartment. It was a sprawling stone fortress of old money sitting on 60 acres of manicured coastline. As Dean’s rattling sedan approached the wrought iron gates the line of vehicles ahead of him looked like a luxury car dealership. Matte black SUVs, sleek silver sports cars, and vintage town cars idled in the fading evening light. When Dean pulled up to the valet stand, the attendant, a kid in a crisp white uniform, stared at the dented hood of Dean’s car with open disdain. “Are you sure you have the right address, sir?” the valet asked, not reaching for the door handle. “Kensington Wedding.” Dean said flatly. He held up the thick gold invitation. The valet sighed, handed him a ticket, and slipped behind the wheel with a look of profound disgust, clearly worried about staining his white gloves on the steering wheel.
Dean walked up the sweeping limestone steps. The reception hall was a master class in aggressive, intimidating wealth. The ceiling vaulted 40 feet into the air, painted with fading frescoes, and dripping with massive crystal chandeliers that fractured the light into a million blinding shards. Walls of white roses filled the air with a heavy, intoxicating perfume that made Dean’s stomach turn. Waiters in pristine white coats glided across the marble floor carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and impossibly small hors d’oeuvres. The sheer volume of money in the room was suffocating. Women wore gowns that cost more than Dean’s car. Men wore watches that could have paid off his student loans and funded Maddie’s college tuition.
Dean immediately retreated to the edges. He found a shadowed alcove near a towering ice sculpture that looked like a weeping swan, and he stayed there. He didn’t take a drink. He didn’t take any food. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, making himself as small and invisible as possible. This was his survival strategy in the corporate world, and it was his survival strategy here. Clock in. Stay quiet. Clock out. But invisibility is a luxury the poor are rarely afforded when the rich are bored. Preston Reed entered the room like a king returning from a conquest. The groom was striking in the kind of effortless inherited way that money buys. Perfect jawline. Teeth bleached to a blinding white. Hair styled to look casually windblown.
He wore a bespoke tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He was surrounded by a small orbit of groomsmen who laughed a little too hard at his jokes and nodded a little too eagerly at his observations. Dean watched Preston from the shadows. There was something immediately terrifying about the man. It wasn’t just the wealth. It was the casual cruelty in the way he moved. The way he snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. The way he looked right through the people serving him. Preston’s gaze swept the room cataloging the elite, acknowledging the power players. And then his eyes caught on the alcove. He stopped. He looked at Dean. Dean froze. He felt the sudden primal instinct of prey being spotted by a predator. He tried to look away. Tried to blend back into the white roses. But Preston was already altering his trajectory.
The groom nudged one of his friends, a tall sneering man holding a dark drink and pointed his chin toward Dean. They walked over. Three men in custom wool and silk closing in on a man in polyester. “Excuse me.” Preston said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and laced with absolute poison. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Dean kept his posture neutral. “Dean. I work in the corporate archives at Kensington Global. Congratulations on your wedding.” Preston didn’t offer his hand. He looked Dean up and down, his eyes lingering on the frayed edge of Dean’s shirt collar and the awkward break of his trousers over cheap dress shoes. Corporate Archives. Preston repeated, tasting the words as if they were sour. He looked at his friends. Audrey really did invite the basement dwellers, didn’t she? I thought the PR team was joking. Got to pump up those optics for the IPO, Prez. The tall friend chuckled. I suppose. Preston sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He stepped closer to Dean. The smell of scotch and expensive cologne rolled off him. Tell me, Dean from the basement, did you rent that suit or did you steal it from a dead magician?
The groomsmen laughed. A few other guests nearby turned to look, their faces twisting into amused smirks. Dean felt the heat rise in his neck. His hands tightened into fists behind his back, his fingernails biting into his palms. Clock in, stay quiet. Clock out. He thought of Maddie. He thought of the insurance. It’s rented. Dean said quietly. Preston smiled. It was a terrifying, dead-eyed smile. At least you’re honest. Though I have to say, it’s a bit insulting showing up to my wedding looking like a shift manager at a bowling alley. You’re lowering the property value just by standing here. I was required to attend by human resources. Dean said, his voice tight but steady. I intend to stay out of your way. Oh, you’re definitely in my way, Preston whispered. He took another step forward, invading Dean’s personal space. “You see, people like you don’t belong in rooms like this. You’re a prop. You’re a statistic on a PR spreadsheet. You’re supposed to stand in the corner, be grateful for the free air conditioning, and scurry back to your miserable little life when the real people sit down to dinner.”