“Thank you, Senator,” she says in a soft, girlish tone. One she’s never used with me. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“Now, now. You know better than that. Call me Keith. And this must be…”
Banks glances over at me, his smile faltering. He tries to recover, but I’m too perceptive to miss out on such minor details.
He extends a hand out of forced politeness, always one to practice proper etiquette. He’s not good enough to hide the distaste buried underneath, though.
I’ve experienced the same cold pleasantries a thousand times over. The way certain rich people look down at gangsters like me. The way they smile and shake your hand while internally recoiling.
He clearly knows what I am. What my family is.
For that reason alone, Idon’tshake his hand. Just give a curt nod. “Senator.”
Simone releases a sigh beside me, obviously frustratedorembarrassed. It doesn’t matter which because I don’t give a fuck either way.
Banks slowly pulls his hand back, his smile tighter. “Well. Lovely to see you both. Congratulations again.”
Then he walks off, disappearing into the crowd with the ease of a career politician.
Simone turns to me, her eyes narrowed and tone sharp. “Would it kill you to be polite?”
“Would it kill him not to look at me like I’m dirt on his shoe?” I counter.
“Chantal and her father areveryclose.”
“Which means he knows you hate me,” I predict. “He knows how our marriage came to be.”
“Never mind.” She walks off toward the bar, her gold dress flowing behind her like a river of liquid gold.
The rest of the evening carries on in tedious fashion.
Dinner begins, and everyone sits down to their ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate meal. We’re seated at a table near the front with Malcolm and Ashante Langston, along with a few other high-profile guests—a tech CEO, a hedge fund manager, and their perfect, surgically altered wives.
The first course is a creamy lobster bisque served in fine china bowls, garnished with a drizzle of truffle oil and a sprig of chervil.
That’s followed by the second course of seared scallops and microgreens. I feel like a fucking cow grazing on grass ’til the main course arrives and it’s finally a meal that’ll satisfy a grown ass man.
Filet mignon seared just right, roasted vegetables like carrots and fingerling potatoes, and a red wine reduction that pools the plate like blood.
I clear the plate between the couple of whiskeys I knock back. If I’m staying any longer, I might as well be plied with alcohol.
A woman across from me, who’s dripping in pearls and diamonds, gives me a startled look. Like I’m some barbarian who doesn’t know how to behave at a fancy dinner.
I don’t give a fuck. I don’t even want to be here.
Simone sits beside me, stiff and silent. She picks at her food, barely eating. Malcolm makes polite conversation with the hedge fund manager about market trends and investment portfolios. Ashante smiles graciously and compliments the tech CEO’s wife on her dress. It’s all surface-level bullshit.
As the meal ends and more socializing begins—people standing, mingling, moving between tables to exchange contact info—I notice Simone’s no longer by my side.
I scan the large room, my gaze sweeping methodically over the crowd. Politicians laughing too loud. Businessmen and entrepreneurs clinking glasses. Women in expensive gowns clustered together like rare, bright, endangered birds.
Then I spot her.
She’s off by the stage, near the velvet curtains, talking to Heath Kaufman.
Her ex.
He looks the same as ever in his bland navy tuxedo, wire-framed glasses, and defined curls he’s probably emptied half a bottle of mousse in.