Chapter 3

I remained standing near the executive section, simply observing. The rest of Brendan's table started eating, digging into the lavish spread of food. Kevin kept glancing over at me, a piece of lobster hanging from his fork.

"Hey, Liam, you sure you don't want some of this?" he called out, holding up the lobster. "You've probably never had anything this good. It's delicious."

Sarah Jenkins laughed. "Be nice, Kevin. He probably doesn't even know what it is. He's more of a hot dog and beans kind of guy."

The whole table chuckled. They were performing for each other, a little theater of cruelty.

I didn't say anything. The truth was, I hated lobster. It was rubbery and tasteless to me. I preferred a simple cheeseburger. My father, for all his wealth, was the same. He'd often sneak out of fancy galas like this to go to a local diner. These people judged everything by price tags. The idea that someone might genuinely prefer simple food over expensive food was completely alien to them. They saw my refusal to eat as a sign of poverty, not preference.

Just then, the hotel manager, a man named Mr. Dubois, made his way through the crowd. He was a sharp man in his fifties who ran this place with military precision. He spotted me and his path changed. He headed directly for me.

Brendan and his table went quiet, watching. They probably expected Mr. Dubois to personally throw me out.

Mr. Dubois stopped in front of me and gave a slight, respectful bow.

"Mr. O'Connell, sir," he said, his voice low and deferential. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction this evening?"

I gave him a small smile. "Everything is fine, thank you, Jean-Pierre."

"I just wanted to confirm," he continued, "you have that special bottle of whiskey you enjoy stored in my office safe. Shall I have it brought out for you and your father?"

The air at the nearby table grew thick with silence. Brendan's fork clattered onto his plate.

I knew exactly what bottle he was talking about. It was a twenty-five-year-old single malt, a gift from a business partner. It was worth more than Brendan's car. I kept a few personal items here at the hotel, since I was here so often.

Of course, I was the owner. Jean-Pierre Dubois reported directly to me on all matters concerning the hotel chain. His deference wasn't an act; it was his job.

But Brendan and the others couldn't know that. Their minds scrambled to find an explanation that fit their worldview.

"He's putting on a show," Kevin whispered loudly to Chloe. "He must have paid that manager to act like he knows him. It's all a trick!"

Sarah nodded in agreement. "How pathetic. He's spending his last few dollars trying to impress us. It's actually kind of sad."

I considered telling Jean-Pierre to bring the bottle out. It would be a simple way to prove them wrong. I could see the fantasy playing out in my head: the priceless bottle, their shocked faces, the slow, dawning realization.

But it was too easy. Too petty. It would be playing their game.

"Not tonight, Jean-Pierre," I said, my voice firm. "Thank you for the offer, though. I appreciate you remembering."

"Of course, sir," he said with another nod, and then he walked away.

The moment he was out of earshot, the ridicule started again, even louder this time.

"See?" Kevin crowed. "He chickened out! He knew the manager would call his bluff. He doesn't have any fancy whiskey!"

Brendan laughed, relieved. "He was probably hoping we'd be so impressed we'd offer him a job. What a loser."

They went back to their food, cackling. Sarah, however, kept watching me. She leaned over to her boyfriend, a slick-looking guy named Wesley Stone.

"Can you believe the nerve of some people?" she said to him. "It's all about appearances. Unlike you, darling. You're the real deal."

Wesley puffed out his chest. "Some people have to fake it. Others just have it." He was talking about wealth, but all I could think about was Olivia.

Olivia Hayes. My girlfriend.

To the world, she was a famous actress, the face of Sterling Corporation's new ad campaign. To me, she was just Liv. The woman who loved my cooking, who laughed at my bad jokes, who held my hand when we watched movies on my old, comfortable couch. She didn't care about my family name or my bank account. She fell for me when she thought I was just a junior marketing assistant.

Her genuineness was the furthest thing from the shallow, materialistic world of Sarah Jenkins and her friends. They were chasing status and shiny objects. Olivia and I had something real. And she was going to be here tonight. Thinking of her, I felt a renewed sense of calm. Let them have their fun. The night was still young.

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