Everything about the place was suffocating.
The air, the sparkle of the chandeliers, the sound of heels clicking on the parquet, the chime of glasses, the voices. All of it merged into one dreadful cacophony, which made the pain in my head start to throb.
Each step struck the floor, and the pulse in my head answered it. Another glass chimed, and the ache flared again. Someone laughed, and the sound drove straight through my temples.
Every sound, every flicker of movement around me worked its way into that merciless pounding.
The entire evening seemed like a carefully designed torment.
Of course, I'd taken painkillers.
All they'd done was numb the pain. The ache eased a little, though it hadn't gone away, continuing to nag at me, giving me no peace. It was irritating, though not strong enough to grant me a proper excuse to leave.
So I stayed in that unpleasant place, filled with equally unpleasant people.
Naturally, the pain did nothing to improve my mood. Frustration boiled inside me, and I had absolutely no desire to speak to anyone present.
Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual.
They drifted toward me one after another, eager to exchange words, as though I'd been coated in honey or whatever else drew flies to a feast.
I wanted to swear.
But manners. Manners above all.
Michael had been right earlier. I would suffer through it, and my mask wouldn't slip. Not for a second.
Another hand clasped mine. Another voice. Another man with another set of questions.
"How are you, Mr. Monclaire?"
"How does business fare? I've heard remarkable things."
"You continue to exceed every expectation."
"One can only wonder how much further you'll go."
"Your leadership is truly extraordinary."
I nodded. Smiled. Answered with careful politeness.
Every gesture, every phrase moved on its own, polished through years of practice until the whole performance ran on pure instinct.
I didn't want to answer their questions. Most served no purpose. Some wanted to flatter me. Others hoped to grow friendly, perhaps in the hope of securing a deal later.
Despite all this, my replies had to remain polite and pleasant to the ear, yet empty enough not to promise anything. Nothing that might suggest an interest or give rise to further expectations.
And each of them found it necessary to mention my father.
"Your father must be incredibly proud of you."
"Just look at the son he raised."
"Well, what else could one expect from such a great man, if not an equally remarkable heir?"
"Such a legacy, and in your hands no less."
Hearing it all left a bitter taste. Those remarks reduced me to another item produced by my father, a thing he could admire through my achievements.
The idea bordered on absurdity.
What did my work have to do with him?
The only thing he'd ever offered was expectation. Endless demands I could never fully satisfy. Nothing I did reached the mark. I'd spent years proving that much.
Perhaps that was what drove many people to accomplish anything—the relentless urge to please parents.
Their comments added nothing pleasant to the evening.
As for Michael, the same man who had been so worried a few days ago that I might forget this event, he moved through the room with effortless ease.
God, he was in his element.
Watching him, I wondered whether he genuinely enjoyed this false theatre with its dreadful yet very wealthy actors.
He laughed, handed out compliments, and paid particular attention to the women buried under absurd amounts of diamonds. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings. Some even had the things stitched into their gowns. The more glitter, the more charming he became.
And of course, not a drop of alcohol.
Champagne travelled from tray to tray. Wine flowed freely. Nearly everyone reached for another glass sooner or later.
But not Michael.
I couldn't recall ever seeing him with alcohol. Nor had I seen him drunk. Instead, he stood there with his teacup, stirring it with that small spoon of his.
Surely, he drank that blasted tea only to be different.
What normal person would do that at a reception like this?
He drifted cheerfully through the room from one group to another. He was a real social butterfly.
Eventually, I managed to catch his attention.
Which turned out to be a mistake.