Chapter 12
Champagne, Charity, and Clenched Jaws
CALEB
The car ride to the event is quiet, with each of us stuck in our thoughts. James looks out the window at the city lights going by, his face outlined against the dark. I try not to squirm; years of being taught how to sit straight and stay calm are battling against my rising nerves.
"Your mother," James says suddenly. "What should I expect?"
"Caroline Huntington is..." It takes me a second to come up with words to describe my mother. "Well… she is poised and strategic. Every conversation has an objective. She has been a politician's wife for more than 2 decades and I guess she doesn’t know how to turn that off anymore."
"Wow. That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But she's very good at making it seem effortless. She'll ask about your studies, your future plans, and your family."
His expression darkens slightly at the mention of family. "Not much to tell."
"You don't have to elaborate. Keep it vague if you prefer. She's more interested in assessing your suitability than actually knowing you."
"Suitability," he repeats with a bitter smile. "I'm guessing a foster kid turned computer nerd doesn't rank high on her list."
"What she thinks doesn't matter." The firmness in my voice surprises me. "You're my choice, not hers."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning that we aren’t ready to deal with. This isn't real. Remember, it’s not real. James isn’t yours.
It's a strategic alliance, nothing more. But it's getting harder to remember that when James looks at me like he is now, thoughtful and strangely gentle.
"Well," he says finally, "at least I tie a mean bow tie now."
The tension breaks, and I laugh despite my nerves. "You still needed help."
"Details, details." He reaches over and briefly squeezes my hand; the move is so casual and comforting that my mind calms. "It's going to be fine, Caleb. We've got this."
The way he says my name makes my breath catch. It's weirdly personal in a way I didn't expect when we began this whole act. I don't rush to move my hand away, letting his warmth sink into my skin for a second more.
"We're here, sir," the driver announces, pulling up to a brightly lit entrance of the Heritage Museum, tonight's venue.
Taking a deep breath, I mentally switch into the version of myself these people expect to see. "Remember," I say, turning to James as the car door opens. "These people have known me my whole life, but don't know me at all. Don't believe anything they say about me."
He looks puzzled but nods. "Noted."
The museum has been transformed for the evening, with elegant floral arrangements, soft lighting, and waitstaff circulating with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. A small orchestra plays classical music in the corner, providing sophisticated background ambiance for the well-heeled crowd.
We've barely made it ten steps into the foyer when I spot my mother heading straight for us, a practiced smile fixed on her face.
"Caleb, darling," she greets, air-kissing near my cheek. "Right on time, as always."
"Mother," keeping to the formal address she expects in public. "May I introduce James Hunter? James, this is my mother, Caroline Huntington."
"Mrs. Huntington," James says smoothly, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
My mother briefly takes his hand, her eyes cataloging every detail of his appearance. "Mr. Hunter. Caleb mentioned you're in his fraternity? Computer science, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am. Focusing on cybersecurity."
"How fascinating," she says, sounding interested even though I know she's not. "Such an important field these days, with all the concerns about election integrity and foreign interference."
And there it is, the immediate pivot to politics. My mother never misses an opportunity.
"It's certainly a growing concern," James says, nodding and handling her noticeable topic change way better than I do. "Though my interests lean more toward protecting infrastructure and private data systems."
"Of course." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, I must greet the other guests. Caleb, be sure to speak with the Richardsons; they've been asking after you. And the Franklins brought their son David tonight. He's finished his first year at Harvard Law."
The message is clear: these are the connections she wants me to develop, the appropriate social circles she wants me to be part of. James is to be tolerated, not embraced.
"We'll make the rounds." It’s easier to agree than argue, a lesson learned years ago. "Is Christopher here tonight?"
Tension flickers across her face so briefly that only someone who knows her well would catch it. "Yes, with his parents. They're by the Monet exhibit, I believe."
My stomach clenches at the confirmation. I'd hoped he wouldn't attend, but of course, he would. His father is one of my father's biggest donors.
"Lovely." My voice is flat. "We'll say goodbye before we leave."
"Do." She touches my arm lightly. "Your father will call later to check in. He's very interested in meeting your... friend."
Still can't say boyfriend. Won't even give him that much. Because in her mind, James is temporary. A phase. Something I'll outgrow once I meet the right Huntington-approved option.
With that, she glides away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and unspoken expectations in her wake.
"So that's Caroline Huntington," James says quietly. "Exactly as advertised."
"She was actually on her best behaviour." I reach for two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. "Here. You'll need this."
He accepts the glass and takes a sip. "Who's Christopher? I noticed a reaction when you mentioned him."
"Someone from my past," Hopefully that's vague enough to discourage follow-up questions. "His father is an important donor."
James clearly wants to press further, but can tell I don't want to talk about it.
"And the Franklins' son David? Harvard Law, huh?"
"One of my mother's preferred matches. She's been trying to set us up for years."
"Good thing you brought your boyfriend, then," he says with a wink, slipping his arm around my waist with surprising naturalness. "Shall we make the rounds, darling?"
Not being prepared for the endearment, it sends a flush of warmth through me. So in self defense, I ask with a little bite, "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"
"Just playing the part," he says innocently, but there's something in his eyes that makes me wonder if it's entirely a performance.
Or maybe I'm just hoping it isn't.
For the next hour, we make our way around the event like we've done this a hundred times before.
I introduce James to a parade of family friends, political associates, and donors, most of whom express polite interest in him before immediately turning the conversation to my father's campaign or my plans for law school.
"So, law school next year?" James asks when we have a second alone.
Nodding, I adjust my cufflink. "Harvard, if all goes according to my father's twenty-year plan."
"Nice… But is that what you want?"
The question surprises me. Few people care what I want let alone ask me.
"Actually, yes. Though not for the reasons my family thinks. They view law as the gateway to politics, the legacy of being a Huntington. But I've found I genuinely love Constitutional Law, civil rights precedents, and the frameworks that protect people."
"So not following Daddy's footsteps into politics?"
"God no," slips out with heat. "I want to work with non-profits and LGBTQ+ advocacy groups. Use the Huntington name for something that helps people."
I stop, realizing I've told James way more than I planned to. "I'll go to the fancy law school and get the prestigious degree, but what I do with it will be my choice. My version of rebellion, I suppose."
James looks at me for a second, and I see something that might be respect in his eyes. "That's pretty smart, playing the long game."
"It's survival. I've learned to pick my battles with my family."
He nods. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you'd be excellent at advocacy work. You've got the perfect combination of insider knowledge and outsider perspective."
The compliment hits me out of nowhere, I wasn't expecting it, and he seems to genuinely mean it. Before I can respond, another group of my parents' friends walks up to us, and we smoothly switch back to the social act.
As we continue to move around the room, I'm impressed by how well James interacts with everyone.
He speaks well but doesn't show off, and he's polite without being ass-kissing.
When Senator Wilson starts pontificating about cybersecurity, even though he clearly knows nothing about it, James gently but firmly corrects him with such tact that the Senator ends up thanking him for the information.
"You're good at this," I whisper as we move away from that group. "I'm impressed."
"Years of practice dealing with clueless people who think they understand technology," he explains. "Same principle, correct without humiliating."
"Well, it's working. Even my mother's watching you with that calculating look she gets when reevaluating an asset."
"Is that what I am? An asset?"
"To her? Everything and everyone is an asset or a liability. With no middle ground in campaign thinking."
"And to you?" he asks, his dark eyes surprisingly intent.
Before I can answer, a familiar voice interrupts from behind me. "Caleb Huntington, as I live and breathe."
Every muscle in my body tenses at once. I know that voice. I've spent years trying to forget it.
Turning slowly, I make my face go blank. "Christopher. I heard you were attending tonight."
Christopher Montgomery stands before us, holding a whiskey and wearing the same smug smile I remember. At thirty-two, he's a decade older than me, though he tries hard to look younger. His family's manufacturing fortune has funded both his lifestyle and my father's campaigns for years.