Twenty-Three
The warehouse was full of rich people, beautiful people, and the lucky few who were both. From across the sea of highlights and updos, tuxes and tiaras, he stood like a mannequin. Somewhat in the crowd, but also apart from it.
I saw him, and my entire self—body, mind, and soul—leaped. Elliot.
I knew he hated society events like this. Everyone dressed in clothes that cost enough to feed starving families for a generation, all in the name of raising money for some trendy cause on another. The choking stench of hypocrisy was overwhelming.
Fiona had told me about the gig. Some young, up-and-coming designer had hired a dozen professionals to model his wares at the event to show everyone how beautiful people looked in his clothes and to start the buzz about his new collection.
