The Oakwood Country Club smelled of old money—a specific blend of cut grass, expensive gin, and floral centerpieces that cost more than most people's mortgages.
It was Sunday, 11:00 AM. The sun was bright, reflecting off the pristine white tablecloths set up on the patio overlooking the eighteenth hole.
Damon walked behind his wife and stepson, wearing his "social armor"—a navy blazer, khakis, and loafers. He looked relaxed to the untrained eye, but his gaze was razor-sharp, fixed on Leo's back.
Leo was walking differently today.
To anyone else, it was imperceptible. But Damon noticed. He saw the slight hesitation in Leo's stride, the way he favored his left leg just a fraction of an inch. He saw the tiny wince hidden in the corner of Leo's mouth when he stepped down from the curb.
