Harold Harrington shook my hand with the confidence of a man who’d never wondered if he belonged anywhere. His wife Victoria offered her hand loosely, already disengaged.
“And where are you from, David?” she asked.
“Riverside,” I said. “Near the park.”
Her smile tightened. “How… charming.”
Dinner was staged like a performance. I was seated at the far end of the table, not excluded outright, just placed carefully out of the way. The conversation flowed around investments, legacy, pedigree. Thomas Harrington bragged about an app he barely understood. Harold talked about grooming Mark for a future role.
I listened. I smiled. I drank water.
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