Hidden nights

The ivory facade (Adrienne)

The sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the Fitzgerald estate, turning the garden into a haven of golden hues. The air buzzed with the clink of glasses and the soft murmur of conversations as guests, each a prominent figure in their own right, mingled beneath the sprawling branches.

Dressed in an elegant gown, I maneuvered through the crowd, my steps guided by the unwritten rules of high-society gatherings. The garden, usually a tranquil retreat, now teemed with the energy of important guests. The laughter of influential figures echoed against the ivy-clad walls, creating a symphony of affluence.

My gaze flitted across the scene, catching snippets of conversations that ranged from politics to business endeavors. Each cluster of guests represented a web of connections, and I navigated the intricacies with the practiced ease expected of a Fitzgerald. The scent of freshly cut flowers blended with the aroma of delicacies from the catering tables, enveloping the gathering in an air of sophistication.

As I approached the center of attention, a circle of influential figures engaged in animated discussion, I couldn't help but feel the weight of expectations. This was not just a garden party; it was a stage where the reputation of the Fitzgerald name was on display. Smiles and polite nods accompanied my interactions, concealing the subtle dance of influence beneath the surface.

The garden, adorned with twinkling fairy lights as the sun set, transformed into a magical backdrop for a soirée of power and prestige. Amidst the elegance and carefully crafted ambiance, I moved with purpose, recognizing that every exchange, every smile, was a step in the intricate dance of societal expectations—a dance that unfolded not just in the garden but in the enduring legacy of the Fitzgerald mansion.

My abrupt entrance into the lively discussion with the affluent businessman prompted my father's swift acknowledgment. "There she is! Mr. Thompson, this is our daughter, Adrienne," my father introduced, eliciting a practiced smile from me. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," I said, extending my hand in a display of polite formality.

However, as the conversation delved into the intricacies of business diplomacy, my attention waned. Politely nodding at Mr. Thompson's anecdotes, I found my mind wandering, seeking solace in observing the diverse array of guests. The garden party unfolded around me, each guest a character in this grand narrative. While my family engaged in the exchange of pleasantries, I quietly retreated into the background, an observer in this social tapestry.

The garden party buzzed around us, the clinking of glasses and laughter creating a vibrant backdrop. Yet, the small talk about stocks and investments felt stifling. My parents wore practiced smiles, exchanging pleasantries that danced on the surface of business diplomacy.

Just as I contemplated an escape, a new player entered the scene —a man in his mid-twenties exuding confidence. His magnetic presence drew attention, his undeniable good looks paired with an unmistakable attitude. A crooked smile adorned his lips as he approached, a nonchalant allure in his gaze. A face I was familiar with. Mr. Thompson introduced, "This is my son, Westley." I tried to hide my surprise by looking down. My mother's eyes twinkled as she shook hands, giving me a meaningful look. Shaking his hand, I observed a confident curl of his lips and a handshake longer than needed. "Pleasure to meet you, Adrienne," his voice echoed, sweet like honey. As my parents conversed with Mr. Thompson, I felt Westley's eyes on me.

Maybe, just maybe, this garden party held more possibilities than the predictable exchange of pleasantries.