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Ava expected Mat to take her to a stale church basement or an elementary school gymnasium with metal folding chairs, but instead they took a Swyft across the bridge to Hudson Yards and soared up thirty stories in a glass elevator that opened onto the expansive floor of a tech office. The room’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the bright Manhattan skyline. A thick, live-edge walnut buffet table overflowed with drinks and individually packaged snacks.
The room was packed with young, well-groomed men whose style collectively amounted to affluent minimalism: white leather sneakers, pants cuffed above the ankle, crisp oxford shirts rolled to their elbows.
Mat walked up to a man pouring himself a cup of seltzer. He had tightly buzzed gray hair and wore an unbuttoned denim shirt over a
