Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
The Other Half
The thing about rich people is that they never want to claim that they are, but it’s always in the air.
The talk of their latest vacations. The staff that disappears as soon as they enter a room. Attending parties for no purpose at all. All the gadgets and gizmos they want just because they saw them online once.
It is a complete and total unawareness of how the other ninety percent lives. The Whitmore’s annual garden party is the night where I witness these conversations firsthand.
A lavish event used to show off to their friends, disguised under the noble cause called “Kids to Kids” that allegedly funds access to better education for underprivileged youth.
Last year, I didn’t see one single pamphlet or sign that indicated what the event actually was for. There is no doubt in my mind that tonight’s event will be more of the same.
While they are concerned with who to impress, I am too busy planning out how to unzip this dress. Because when the time comes that I inevitably have to pee, I am screwed.
And those lobster rolls? Getting ready for hours has me starved, with the empty promises of having lunch after I finish my makeup. But then makeup turned into hair and now I am in my dress.
Whenever I tried to sneak a bite, it would turn into a lecture about how eating bread would only make me bloat.
“Do you want people to think you’re pregnant?” Mrs. Whitmore would say. Casually offensive, as if this was the most normal thing to say to a person… The worst part of it all? I look like the best version of myself.
My mid-length brown hair is perfectly placed into a pinned up, voluminous updo.
For this night only, Mrs. Whitmore lets me borrow her Manolo’s and diamond studs, an image worth standing beside her.
I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to take off my pendant hanging around my neck.
Not a single remark from her about it clashing or it not being the “vibe,” as Aidan’s sister, Greer, would always say.
I clutch the pendant as the door swings open, unannounced.
“Ready?”
I nod as both of us squish together in a black town car, traveling a whole two minutes away. Neither of us says a word.
Straight out of Cinderella’s playbook, our entrance requires four footmen to whisk us away through the back entrance to help make our grand reveal. Every year, Mrs. Whitmore outdoes herself. This party is grander than the last.
The sound of the first violin is lifted in the air as my pulse quickens. We are guided to the top of the staircase. The entire ballroom stretches below us, adorned in glittering gold and crystal. Collecting all the air in my lungs, I brace myself.
“Smile bright. No nerves now,” Mrs. Whitmore chirps quietly.
The melody quickens as a second violinist joins in, picking up the tempo. When the cello enters, the full quartet swells to life in a lush and cinematic symphony.
We step forward, suddenly in everyone’s line of sight.
“Dammit, Charlotte. Breathe.”
She grips my arm as we glide down the stairwell. It takes me a full minute to place the melody, then it clicks— “With or Without You” by U2 is playing.
I sing the bridge in my head. The nerves soften into a smile as I lose myself in the familiar song. Aidan stands at the bottom of the stairs, wearing that boyish grin that would once undo me with one look. Even Mr. Whitmore is fixated on his wife. With every note, I feel myself melt away.
Maybe this isn’t all bad.
Each lyric puts me at ease. We make it to the end of the staircase when my heels catch onto the hem of my dress. My balance wavers from a different pair of eyes on me.
His shaggy brown hair is perfectly styled as he stands at the edge of the crowd in his black suit. The music softens as everything dims around him.
He is standing there, just a few feet behind Aidan. When my eyes lock on him, everything slows to a glacial pace. The music. My steps. The world. Everything except my heartbeat.
Mr. All or Nothing is here in New York.
Both are waiting for me patiently at the bottom of the stairs. Aidan’s hand reaches for me as I make it to the last step.
“Care to dance?”
I nod, slipping my hand into his as we glide along to the dance floor, his hand cupped together with mine as we put ourselves into position. With all the dance lessons we have had over the last four years, we easily fall into place.
Every time Aidan spins me, I try to find those green eyes in the crowd.
Maybe he was a ghost, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen going to my brain from this tightly corseted dress?
My hands slide around Aidan’s neck as we pivot from a sharp formal tango posture into something slower, softer.
Taking baby steps. One forward. One back.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Charlotte,” he whispers.
I don’t think we have spent this much time together in weeks. Every thought bubbles up inside me. On the verge of erupting, he spins me again.
And there, his emerald eyes jump out at me, watching me intensely from afar. Holding my gaze as he’s daring me to look away, until the song ends and Aidan and I break apart.
“Do you mind if I speak to Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild over there?” Aidan asks, his eyes already scanning the room.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile as he drifts off to the couple. A drink magically appears in my hand as I step off the floor.
The Fairchilds are probably high on the list of people Aidan’s dad prepped him in advance on his meet and greet tour for the night.
A list with a set of individualized talking points: updates from CEOs, connections to high-level players and the kind of instrumental money that danced in the subtext of every conversation.
Because even for them, a party wasn’t just a night to have fun, but a strategic gathering for business.
Aidan wears a measured smile. I’ve seen it before since it’s the one that he pulls out for these special occasions that shows with one single look, I’ll agree with anything you say.
A glow is radiating off my pendant as soon as Aidan walks off into the distance. I drift to a lonely tabletop in the corner, knowing Skye must be close by.
Unconsciously, trying to find those green eyes again.