Chapter 2

As I walked toward the executive tables, a memory from middle school surfaced, uninvited. It was about Sarah Jenkins. She was in the same group as Brendan and the others, her eyes fixed on me with a familiar venom. Back in eighth grade, she had been the first person to make me feel like I was less than human simply because of where I lived.

My father had made his fortune from the ground up, and he wanted me to understand the value of a dollar. So, we lived in a normal house in a normal neighborhood, and I went to public school. Sarah, whose family had new money and a desperate need to show it off, couldn't wrap her head around it.

One day, she found out my dad owned a small but growing chain of hardware stores. She suddenly became very friendly, asking me to hang out, complimenting my terrible school projects. I wasn't interested. I saw right through her. I politely turned her down when she asked me to the school dance.

Her rejection turned into rage. She started a rumor that my dad was a fraud, that we were secretly poor and just pretending. She told everyone I wore secondhand clothes and that our car was a rusty piece of junk. People started to avoid me. The memory was old, but the feeling of isolation it brought was still sharp. Seeing her here tonight, standing with the same kind of people, brought it all back. She was still the same vain, manipulative person, holding a grudge over something that happened more than a decade ago.

I reached the executive area. There was a large, round table at the very center, reserved for my father and the top board members. My seat was right next to his.

Brendan, not willing to let it go, followed me, his voice a loud whisper. "O'Connell, get out of here right now. This is your last warning."

He gestured around the elegantly set tables. "These are reserved. Every seat is assigned. There's no space for a freeloader like you."

I glanced at the table settings. "Actually, there's always one extra chair placed at the chairman's table for security or a last-minute guest. It's hotel policy for high-profile events."

Kevin scoffed. "And how would you know that? Did you read it on the internet while you were filling out unemployment forms?"

Sarah Jenkins now sauntered over, a smug look on her face. "Oh, leave him alone, guys. He's just trying to feel important. It's cute, in a pathetic sort of way."

Brendan, wanting to prove me wrong, flagged down a nearby waiter.

"We need an extra chair at our table," he said, pointing to a nearby table filled with other mid-level managers. "Bring one over."

The waiter smiled politely but shook his head. "I'm very sorry, sir, but we cannot add any chairs. The seating arrangement is fixed as per the fire code and the event organizer's specific instructions. It's a strict policy."

Brendan's face fell. The waiter's words were almost exactly what I had said. He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, before his arrogance took over again.

"He probably just overheard one of the staff members talking," he muttered to Kevin, loud enough for me to hear. "Thinks he's clever."

Just then, one of the senior executives who was supposed to be at Brendan's table got an urgent call and had to leave the event. A seat opened up.

Brendan seized the opportunity. He turned to me with a look of magnanimous pity, as if he were doing me the biggest favor of my life.

"Alright, O'Connell," he said, gesturing to the now-empty chair. "It's your lucky day. Since Mr. Thompson had to leave, you can sit down. But don't touch anything, and don't talk to anyone. Just be grateful you get to eat a free meal."

He looked so proud of himself, so charitable. He thought he was giving a dog a scrap from the table.

I didn't move. I just looked at the empty chair, then back at him.

"No, thank you," I said.

Brendan's jaw tightened. "What did you say? Are you turning down a free meal at the Grand Orion? Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not here for the food," I replied, my voice even.

I wasn't going to sit at their table. I wasn't going to accept their charity. I was going to sit where I belonged. My calm refusal seemed to bother them more than any angry outburst would have. They couldn't understand it. In their world, someone like me should be groveling with gratitude. My indifference was a puzzle they couldn't solve, and it was driving them crazy.

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