The Ashford estate's main ballroom hummed with the kind of conversation that happened when very powerful people gathered to gossip about even more powerful people.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over designer gowns and perfectly tailored suits, while servers moved between clusters of guests carrying champagne that cost more per bottle than most people's cars—which, considering the guest list, was saying something.
Aleric Ashford adjusted his tie for the third time in ten minutes, though not from nerves. At nineteen, he carried himself with the particular confidence that came from knowing the cosmic dice were loaded in his favor. Tonight, everything was falling into place exactly as his very mysterious, very effective benefactor had promised.
"You look like the cat who ate the canary," his father said, appearing beside him with two glasses of Dom Pérignon that sparkled like liquid diamonds.
