In My Double Digits Era Invitation Novels & Stories

“No…I mean, I thought-“ “That I’d take you with me as my date?” I laughed humorlessly. “The invitations were sent out only to the Prince or Princesses of all the Dimensions, any extras that came with them were either their most trusted servants or their wives/husbands, fiancé’s or consorts, none of the categories you fit in. So tell me, Trevina, why should I have taken you with me?”

It was better than I had expected. *You have been invited to the annual Crawford luncheon as one of our VIP guests.* I don’t read the rest of the invitation. My eyes dart to the bottom of the invitation where the date was listed. My stomach drops. The event was rescheduled to this weekend—a day after tomorrow.

The invitation looked expensive. Heavy ivory paper. Gold embossed lettering. The kind of invitation that only existed in circles most people never entered. Estella sat across from Jonathan Ritz inside his townhouse while turning the card over in her hand. A small smile appeared on her lips. "So we're breaking the law tonight?" Jonathan sipped his coffee. "Technically." "Technically?" "Very technically." Estella laughed. The older man leaned back in his chair. "The owner of that invitation is an old friend of mine. He can't attend, but he doesn't want his absence to raise questions."

For the first time in a long time, I slept happily. By night time I received an invitation card. ‘You are invited to our dinner party, from Devon MCcall and Lydia Hamilton.’ The venue and the like were stated. “I just got an invite from Devon and Lydia,” I told Derek as we were about to eat dinner. “We are going for the dinner party,” Derek said sharply. I wanted to pity them but with what they displayed today, they renewed my hatred for them. Their downfall has just begun.

The invitation was a masterpiece of passive-aggressive diplomacy: a heavy, cream-colored card embossed with the Thorne family crest. It was an invitation to the annual Founders’ Gala, the most exclusive night on the Manhattan social calendar. But everyone knew what it really was. It was a summons. Silas Thorne was calling for a public inspection of the girl who had dared to hang up on him.

Unknown POV I can’t stop staring at the unwanted invitation that is lounging on my desk right now. Just looking at it causes my heart to palpitate. The invitation reads, Mr. Ralph Lewis and Mrs. Sylvia Lewis humbly request the pleasure of your company at a Celebration, on the 3rd of September, at 4 pm at our estate. Kindly RSVP by August 29th. Dress Code: Cocktail Attire. We look forward to sharing this special occasion with you.

◆◆◆ Chapter 5 ◆◆◆ The invitation pinged into their shared inbox on the fifteenth, black card on black background, silver script: Velvet Circle. Last Saturday. 9 PM. Dress code: Creative. No masks required — everyone there already knew each other's faces, and most of their bodies. Fanny draped herself over Tony's shoulders at the kitchen table, reading the words with him. Three years married. Three years of monthly orgies. The timeline blurred pleasantly.

In the next moment, Caroline came knocking on the door of her cabin, and stated, "Miss Grant, you got a dinner invitation for a night party this Wednesday. How should I respond to this?" Hearing her words, Vanessa narrowed her eyes and massaged her slightly throbbing temple, and she queried softly, "party? What is it about?" "It was hosted by Twin W Corp." Caroline said, and continued, "It would be a typical business dinner, Miss Grant." Vanessa also understood it, and she pondered for a few seconds before she mumbled, "alright. Accept the invite." Caroline gave a knowing nod, and murmured, "Noted, Miss Grant."

_The invitation arrived at the cathedral hospital the next afternoon, delivered by a silent courier in an immaculate black suit. The envelope was heavy cream paper sealed with crimson wax bearing a stylized V. Inside, in elegant handwriting that looked centuries old, were the words: Dinner. Tonight. My estate. Come as you are. — R.

The announcement went out on a Tuesday. Not through a press release. Through a printed invitation, cream stock, hand-addressed, delivered to the two hundred and forty people I had identified as the relevant room for this particular evening. The invitation arrived at the same time as the Blackwood Foundation’s annual gala invitation, which went out on its standard schedule because institutions operated on their schedules regardless of the condition of the people who nominally ran them, and the simultaneous arrival of the two invitations in the same mailboxes on the same Tuesday was not accidental.