Irvin's POV
I tugged at my tailored black suit collar as I stepped from the car, approaching the grand building where the elite had assembled for Foster's dinner.
The event met every expectation I'd harbored—pompous, ostentatious, and carefully crafted to dazzle.
Still, I entered with my chin raised, spine straight, already wearing my practiced mask of charisma.
I met my father at the entrance, the older man offering barely a nod of acknowledgment.
"You're late," he grumbled, fiddling with his cufflinks.
"Fashionably," I responded with a slight grin, dismissing his criticism.
The room hummed with chatter and the gentle percussion of crystal glasses. Delicate classical melodies drifted through the air.
I trailed behind my father as we navigated from cluster to cluster—exchanging handshakes, delivering hollow flattery, chuckling at humor that fell flat.
This realm had shaped me from birth.