The Sterling Atrium was a masterpiece of modern architecture, a massive dome of glass and steel that looked like a cathedral dedicated to the worship of money. It was illuminated by thousands of floating, warm-toned lights that made the interior look like a galaxy trapped indoors. A string quartet played softly in the corner, their classical music barely audible over the clinking of crystal champagne flutes and the low, confident murmur of billionaires networking.
I walked through the massive glass doors, the cold winter wind instantly replaced by the warm, perfumed air of the gala. I handed my heavy, black invitation to the head of security standing at the velvet rope.
He was a large man with an earpiece and cold, dead eyes. He scanned the invitation with a barcode reader, his eyes flicking up to my face. He opened his mouth, likely to tell me to step aside and wait for a Vanguard escort—standard protocol for someone not on the primary VIP list.
But the words died in his throat.
