My son, Julian, adjusted his silk tie in the hallway mirror, his back to me. He was handsome in that sharp, predatory way that wealth affords—perfect teeth, perfect skin, eyes that were constantly assessing the value of everything they touched.

He turned, cornering me against the mahogany paneling. His voice was low, but it carried the venom of a coiled snake.

“I told you to stay in the west wing,” Julian hissed. “Look at you. You look like a charity case. Do you have any idea who is walking through those doors in ten minutes? The Mayor. The investors for the tech merger. People who think I come from old money, not… whatever peasant stock you’re displaying.”