Chapter 38: Among the gilded

The conference was held at the Royal Lancaster Hotel, near Hyde Park. It was a gathering of business moguls, tech-savvy entrepreneurs, and hedge-fund investors. The air was filled with the smell of expensive perfumes, the ricochet of rich voices, and gleaming faces. They were dressed in suits and lavish gowns. Nat sat beside Zara. He looked dapper in a bespoke navy suit. Zara looked like a haughty butterfly in a midnight blue Dior gown.

Among the attendees were the chairman, Mr. French, and Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, who showed up every year.

The crowd clapped lightly after Mr. French gave his rather warm opening remark, highlighting the achievements of the annual conference, capping his boasts with gratitude to God, thanking Him for their success through the power of capitalism.

Prince William highlighted the importance of balancing ceremonial functions with social and economic impact. His charisma was felt deeply, as the crowd rose  when he mounted the stage to commence his speech.

Now, Nat was at the podium. The projector behind him showed his name:

CEO, Wolfe Group Inc.

Zara looked at him in proud admiration.

“It’s an honour to be here,” he began. His eyes scanned the room.

He mimicked the Duke’s earlier statement. The Duke laughed, which revealed the close kinship and friendship they shared. Nat praised the Duke’s disposition and attitude toward championing the cause of global innovation and entrepreneurship.

Then he launched into his fully prepared speech, followed by two panel sessions and a poem performance called The Future Awaits Us—a spirited, advocacy performance by a renowned global poet from Africa.

Afterward, there was a networking session in a spacious hall filled with the attendees. The Duke was with Nat; they were talking and laughing. Several others surrounded him occasionally to pay royal reverence.

Zara stood bored, staring at a buffet tray containing sushi and another with cold cuts and pastas. Her mind was elsewhere. She felt excluded, ejected from the scene.

Nat came up.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey!” she forced a smile.

“I saw you from over there. You seem bored,” he said, then analyzed the obviousness in his statement. Of course, she would be bored. She was all alone. He had brought her into this esoteric, unknown gathering.

“I’m not bored—just a little tired,” she lied.

“You’re all alone here. I shouldn’t have left you for so long.”

“No, please. Go do your talking.”

“The Prince sends his regards, anyway. He knows we’re a thing.”

Zara blinked. She wondered why he should know—and if he even cared.

“He’s a childhood friend. We attended Eton College together.”

“I see. That explains the familiarity,” Zara remarked. Eton College was an overly expensive private school—£52,749 per year for tuition. The students there were mainly children of royals and billionaires. They paid such amounts not for the education their kids would receive, but for the connections.

He picked up two glasses of wine from a tray poised high in the hands of a waiter. His uniform was stark white and stiff.

“Here,” he said, giving her a glass.

French, the chairman, shouted his name, hailing him.

“Nathaniel Wolfe!” French was bald, in his fifties, but maintained a sharp, ageless look. He had a pinkish tan and wore glasses.

“My man, French!” They hugged and thumped backs.

“So good to see you once more,” Nat said, smiling. French nodded and beamed. He looked over at Zara. Nat cleared his throat.

“Zara, meet French. French, Zara.”

“Oh! What a lovely speech, sir,” she said, her smile glittering as much as her dress, with a dramatic flourish that made her look charming.

“You are too kind,” French replied.

“Wow, Nat, I always knew you had quite the catch. Nice bird,” he said.

Nat laughed loudly. Zara grew shy.

“Zara, I hope this isn’t too much for you. It’s quite a tense, toxic gathering, I suppose—all this careful negotiation and formality…An unfamiliar savoir-faire.” French said compassionately.

“No, I’m perfectly fine,”  Zara said.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

Just then, one of his friends arrived.

“Patel, meet Zara. Zara, Patel.”

Patel was British-Indian, with a carefully carved full beard and skin the color of tea.

“Patel runs one of the largest maritime arbitration firms in Asia.” Patel gave her a slow, sly look, as if he were about to doze off. He was doe-eyed. He lifted his glass and sipped.

“Enchanté, Madame,” he said in a flirtatious tone.

Nat belched a little too dramatically, pretending to clear his throat.

“He tends to overextend his hospitality,” he said.

Nat turned to Zara, locking her hands in his arms.

“Meet Claret. He owns a fintech company.”

Claret wore a blue suit with Air Force sneakers and sunglasses. He looked cool.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand.

“And—oh!—the man of the hour, the eccentric eagle.”

“Meet Larry Bellamy. He’s into investment banking.”

Zara looked on with great admiration.

Even before Nat introduced him, he looked prominent. His presence exuded power—an undeniable, unmistakable aura. He wore a yellow suit and a cape of brown, feathery animal skin, like Superman’s but more fashionable. He carried a walking stick topped with a gold lion’s head.

Despite his presentation and the appearance of an unapproachable don, he seemed nice—softer than his hard exterior.

“Hello, y’all,” he said, waving. His mannerisms—the pouted lips and the sway of his walk—made it obvious that he was gay. Zara liked him immediately.

Later, Nat would tell her that Larry had once propositioned him in his office, saying, “I could make a straight man turn gay, if you let me.”

Nat was never homophobic. He simply laughed and patted his shoulder, telling him, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Nice to meet you,” Zara smiled politely.

“Nat, can I see you for a second?” Larry asked, motioning him aside, where he began querying Nat over his refusal to continue construction on his fourth slash-and-burn project. The others had been abandoned and left uncompleted. Nat was tired and decided he wouldn’t go on again with such visionless projects.

“So tell me—what are you and Nat like behind closed doors, outside rooms like this?” Larry asked.

Zara blinked, looking him over.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she said politely.

“Well…” he eyed her with desire. “I’m just curious. You deserve more than any man can give you. Such a pretty damsel—and intelligent, too.”

“Thank you,” Zara said, unmoved by his false amorousness.

He handed her his business card. “Call me,” was the last thing he said.

She was fiddling with the card when Nat pulled her toward the other side of the room, where paintings hung on the walls.

“Don’t even think about it,” Nat said.

“What?”

“Calling him.”

“Why? He seems nice.”

“He’s a pervert.”

“Really? And so are you.”

“He flirts with anything he sees.”

They walked down a corridor lined with paintings—an idyllic gallery of emotive canvases. Just then, a beautiful woman in a gold-colored gown glittering under the lights walked toward them.

“Nat!” she exclaimed, eyes shining with delight.

“Dani—elle,” he stuttered. The shock was surreal. His heart pounded.

She hugged him. He didn’t hug her back, still reeling from the frenzy of emotions heating his chest.

“Oh my God! What’s it been—ten years?”

“Or more,” Nat smiled. “You look so good.”

“Still the sexy brat that got your eyes, I suppose,” she said brightly.

“Perhaps—stole my heart.” Nat said.

She laughed, then looked at Zara.

“Pardon my manners. Meet Zara. Zara, this is Danielle.”

“Hi!” Zara forced a smile.

“Hello,” Danielle waved brightly.

“She looks like more than just a friend,” she winked.

“Stop it, Danielle,” Nat teased. “Danielle here is one of the most terrifying cross-examiners alive.”

“You could call me Danielle the fiery litigator. I break necks and kick asses in courtrooms for breakfast,” she laughed.

“Pleasure,” Zara said bluntly.

“Danielle, can I see you for a second?” Nat asked.

“Sure.” Before leaving, Danielle leaned toward Zara and whispered,

“Oh, and by the way—I’m his ex. He didn’t tell you. We go way back.”

She cackled—a restrained, mocking laugh—then walked away.

Zara felt irritated. A sickening disgust crept inside her. She wanted to slap her, to say something boldly defensive—but she couldn’t. He was already enveloped by his past.

They stood nearby now, joined by another woman—an Asian lady in a sharp suit. They sipped cognac. Nat looked lighter, happier than Zara had ever seen him.

Her jealousy wasn’t visceral—it was sharp, angular, cutting. She turned away, fiddling with her necklace, staring at a painting of a naked Black woman, her painted breasts bold and unapologetic.

“Bold. Black. Beautiful,” she murmured, recalling a poem she once wrote. “Absolute design derived from sand.”

Another painting—a shattered mirror splattered with blood. She felt the sudden urge to cry. She imagined smashing a mirror in the hotel room, shards scattering across the floor. She smiled.

Danielle returned.

“So… what do you do?” she asked. Zara felt a twinge of puzzlement. She wondered why she cared at all—why she was now prying into her, burrowing into her life like a hawk seeking the carcasses of other people’s stories.

“I’m a fashion business mogul.”

“Mogul?” she scoffed.

“Is this one of your pieces?” She eyed Zara’s gown.

“It’s Christian Dior. My brand is ZaraTrue. I have a full catalogue.”

“Oh. This is a platinum-gold Valentino. Nothing more exquisite than this.”

Zara felt exhausted. Something in her tone was mocking.

“Whatever,” Zara murmured.

“Nice catch. Nat’s always had good eyes—not disappointed to see my replacement.”

The falseness irritated Zara. She smiled faintly.

“Ladies,” Nat returned, calling a waiter. They ate scallops. Zara didn’t.

“I was just telling Zara how stunning her dress is,” Danielle said.

She hugged Nat—too long—then whispered something that made him laugh.

Zara watched. It felt like a horror movie.

“Babe, are you having fun?” Nat asked her.

“I’m tired. I want to go home,” Zara said.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

They rode the elevator up. Zara didn’t even take off her dress. She grabbed a glass and hurled it against the wall.

The sound shattered the room.

Nat stared.

Zara looked at him like a night witch—like a banshee.

And so, the brawl unfurled.