In the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket was the invitation, thick cream stock with silver embossing, the kind of invitation men framed because it made them feel chosen. He had taken it out twice in the car just to touch it. The Diamond Gala. The kind of event people like Preston spent years trying to talk their way into and even longer pretending they weren’t impressed by once they got there.
He had told three people that week, with practiced modesty, that he “didn’t usually do charity galas,” which was the kind of lie that only works if the room is already full of people who want to believe you.
“Stick close,” he murmured to Tiffany as they crossed the foyer. “Smile. Don’t drink too fast. And if anyone asks what you do, tell them you’re in brand strategy.”
She looked up at him. “I’m your executive assistant.”
“Tonight,” he said, “you’re in brand strategy.”
Tiffany grinned. “Got it. Sophisticated.”
“Act expensive,” Preston said.
Her laugh echoed off the stone.
He liked that too.
What Preston did not know as he entered the ballroom was that the invitation in his pocket had not been a key. It had been bait.