Page 37 of Man of the Year

“No. However, they are professionals accustomed to working with high-profile clients. That’s the majority of the guest list.”

Oh, wow. Now I’m really curious.

“Let me wait on the guests,” I ask Rosalie.

“I’ll need you back here,” she responds, all business.

“I’m good at it,” I beg her. “I’ve been bartending for years. Trust me, I’ll be efficient and watch out for anything the guests or the boss need. Please-please-please?”

“We’ll see,” she replies.

When I hear the music outside, excitement spikes through me. It’s five o’clock when Rosalie sends me to the terrace to do the final check.

The terrace is decorated with flowers and lanterns. The garden in front of it is dotted with tables, chairs, and tabletop fire pits. A long buffet table with fruits and desserts is set at the far end.

The main addition to the terrace is a large portable movie screen as big as those at the old drive-in theaters. There’s no sound, but footage of cutting-edge technology and product demonstrations loops on the screen, showcasing augmented reality real estate concepts and a futuristic interface. Digital tablet stands are set up along the perimeter of the lawn. Rosalie was right—this is not your average party.

There are no guests yet, but several catering staff members already stand like statues, motionless, with trays balancing in one hand. Rosalie said that several others are at the main entrance.

Julien walks out onto the terrace but doesn’t spare me a glance. His eyes scan the setup. He seems nervous, though nothing gives it away except for the fact that he ignores me—that’s definitely an indicator. He absently adjusts the cuff of his suit sleeve almost on repeat.

“Is everything all right?” I ask him.

His eyes slowly shift from the screen to the catering staff, the tables, and the digital stands.

“Let’s hope that this party goes off without any incidents,” he says without looking at me.

I don’t ask why this is a concern.

I tug at the annoying neckerchief and square my shoulders. “It’s going to be fine, Julien.”

I walk back into the mansion, hoping that this party goes up in flames.

TWENTY-SEVEN

NATALIE

I see why white neckerchiefs are a must for the staff.

It’s six in the evening, and the terrace is crowded with guests. A lot of them wear black—black suits, black shirts, black dresses, black t-shirts, black baseball hats, and black jeans. Black is the new black again. Most people are dressed informally, and most of them are younger than me or around my age. Many look like college students.

“Entrepreneurs,” Rosalie explains. “The tech crowd. Silicon Valley and all.”

Not sure she understands what she’s talking about, but I get it.

I sneak outside through the staff entrance to take a peek at the front of the mansion. I spot groups of guys wearing worn-out jeans and shirts that have seen better days, unshaved, young. There are more luxury cars and limos parked at the front than I’ve seen at a car expo. Unlike any luxury car expo, this parking lot is infested with bodyguards. Today, The Splendors is secured better than the Louvre.

Within half an hour, things get hectic. The catering staff run in and out between the staff quarters and the terrace. Sagar is helping. Even Walter, the unfriendly gardener, is here, carrying more boxed beverages out of the walk-in cooler in the storage room. Mind you, there’s no food served, only fruit and desserts. These guests didn’t come here to eat.

Eventually, Rosalie gives me a tray with soft bubbly drinks in champagne glasses.

“Craft cocktails. No alcohol. Go-go-go,” she hurries me, and I hustle into the hallway.

I’m about to turn toward the open double doors that lead onto the back terrace when I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure in the hallway across the living room—Geoffrey Rosenberg, slipping into the library.

What would he be doing there when he has guests to entertain?

I turn on my heel and follow. I approach the door and, without knocking, gently pull at the handle. If there’s a time to be unapologetically nosy, it’s now.

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