This Crazy Rich Boy

What's the Palace? What's the event? And what is her role in it?

So many questions, but so far, Lopez is not so forthcoming. All he does is grunt and nod in ȧssent to each of Claire's conjectures. "It is not my place to provide the details, Madam."

"But I thought you were sent to actually 'enlighten' me about it," Claire says.

"I was sent to merely prepare you, Madam. And to safely escort you to the Palace."

"And what is this Palace, anyway?"

"It's just his house," Lopez says.

Claire makes a face. "The last time you said we were going to a 'house', what a house it was!"

Lopez shakes his head and smiles. "Apologies. I didn't know you were actually serious when you said you didn't know anything about Balenciaga."

Claire is silent for a while. They are now outside the city, and in Claire's estimation, they're in the vicinity of what is considered the country's most posh village. High walls on both sides of the road, and usually the only people you'd see are either maids walking their master's dogs, or security guards manning the main entrance or the gates of individual mansions. Claire wonders how do people in this area actually live? They're trapped in their own cocoons of wealth and affluence. They don't even speak to their next-door neighbor. They live here, but is any of them actually happy? Do they feel fulfilled?

She'd rather live in her apartment—that is, if possible, without her annoying flat mates. She'd rather live at the heart of the city, right next door to food trucks and wet markets and everything else. Not here. Not in this kind of place. Claire realizes that even if they offer her a truckload of money to live here, she'd choose not to. She won't live her life according to other people's expectations. Especially not these kinds of people.

It's already deep in the night. Claire tries to see anything outside the window, but it's getting darker, the mansions getting farther and farther from one another. The Bentley makes a turn to what seems like the last road of the posh village, and to her surprise, they proceed deep into the darkness. They're traversing a lonely country road now, which is actually well-paved, maybe a private access built by whoever owns the mansion at the end of this road. That would be Gabriel Tan or his family.

They really must hate people, Claire thinks, to choose to live so far away from the rest of the world. No wonder Gabriel Tan has no empathy, his emotional cues a mismatch to those of a regular person. His preference for that complicated coffee, for example. Or his nasty reputation. She wonders if all of that is well-deserved, or part of that is just myth that has grown around him.

She's so deep in her thoughts that when Lopez announces that they're finally at their destination, Claire is startled, like somebody yanked her out of a dream. She peers through the car's window and is promptly speechless.

"Are we in Buckingham Palace?" She asks, aware of how stupid the question is.

Lopez lets out a slight laugh. "Oh, no Madam Claire. We're just at one of Master Gabriel's many palaces."

"I had no idea this kind of structure exists in this country. I feel like we're in the European heartland."

"I'm sure you have no idea of many other things about the man we're all working for."

Oh, really? She doubts that those are actually good things.

Lopez opens the door for her. She gingerly steps out, one long leg after another. Before her beckons a long, red carpet leading to a brightly light main door. She's suddenly acutely aware of how nervous she is—her palms are sweating, and there are buŧŧerflies in her stomach.

But she steels her resolve. This is just some stupid party, she tells herself. A party of blissfully ignorant people who don't know how ninety percent of the world actually live.

She starts walking down the red carpet, letting her instinct lead her, but it's all awkward, her gait is awkward, she absolutely has no catwalk persona. She feels so small, a little kitten under the bright lights. Like a bacterium under a microscope. She looks back, and realizes she's all alone. The Bentley is gone, Lopez is gone. And all around her, the flashes of a thousand cameras pop like lightning in a thunderstorm.

Suddenly she feels light-headed, like the world starts spinning. Her hand tries to grab the nearest pole, but she grasps nothing but air. And when she steps forward, her Balenciaga pumps hit a crease in the carpet—her momentum propels her forward at an awkward angle, and she's acutely aware of how she's crashing into the ground, all under the gaze of a thousand eyes. She thinks, "Oh, Claire, you've done it again, you Mistress of Infamy."

Her eyes closed, she resigns to whatever fate brings her. And yet. She stops falling down. She has stopped seemingly in mid-air. When she opens her eyes, she realizes she's being cradled by strong, well-muscled arms. She looks up and gets the surprise of her life.

"You're late," Gabriel Tan says, holding her in his arms.