The key to high-society infiltration wasn't blending in; it was standing out just enough to make people want to approach you.
I spent the first hour of the gala circulating near the high-stakes charity auction tables. The tables were covered in black velvet. Under glass: abstract paintings with violent colors, a vintage Ferrari model, a Rolex with diamonds around the face.
The room was warm. Too warm. The chandeliers threw heat down with the light. The air smelled like white flowers, expensive cologne, and champagne that had been open too long.
I casually dropped six-figure bids on abstract art and vintage sports cars. My voice was calm. "Two hundred thousand." "Three." I didn't look at the price tags. Julian didn't.
The auctioneer's gavel made a sharp sound. _Crack._ People turned.
