As the butler led me through the side entrance, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the evening ahead. It wasn’t that I was unused to such environments—I had attended my fair share of high-profile dinners and networking events as part of my work—but this felt different. This was personal.
We entered a drawing room that seemed more like a museum than a place to relax, with its art that I assumed were originals and furniture that was likely older than I was. My son, Michael, approached with a nervous smile, clearly relieved to see me, though his eyes darted around the room, perhaps ensuring everything was in its place for his in-laws’ approval.
Jessica’s parents, Harold and Margaret, were standing by the fireplace, wine glasses in hand. They were every bit the picture of old money—Harold in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and Margaret in a dress that screamed understated elegance.
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