This Crazy Rich Boy

One look and Claire knows this is not her crowd. This is the jet-set/model/fashionista crowd. The men have perfectly sculpted bodies, the women every inch a super model. Or probably this is one big pȯrn shoot. Nevertheless, Claire feels immediately small and out of place—where does she put herself? Where is Gabriel Tan? There's not even a familiar soul in sight.

But like what she did in many social affairs she attended in the past, Claire adopts her time-tested formula: stay with the smaller crowds, with individuals, as possible. Ones who seem most unlikely to scoff at her attempts at socialization. But why is she overthinking? Underneath this fluffy bathrobe are killer curves that can outmatch any of these under-fed, lanky, anorexic bikini babes out here. She has no reason to feel inferior at all. What if she walks to the center of it all, and just drops the bathrobe for her heart-breakingly gorgeous sėxiness to shine in all its glory?

Maybe later. For now, sidle up to the nearest friendly face: some guy in black trunks sipping some unknown ċȯċktail, watching it all with that goofy look on his face.

"Hey," Claire says. "Cool party, isn't it?"

The man looks at her and sizes her up. He frowns. "This party can be described in many ways, but 'cool' isn't one of them."

Claire is taken aback—maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe this is actually some prickly a-hole. "Why not? Any party hosted by Gabriel Tan must be the coolest party in town, don't you think?"

"What are you, nine?" He shakes his head. "You are clearly not for this crowd, because you don't know Gabriel Tan at all. You won't call him cool. You won't even like him. The only ones Gabriel can fool are those who've read about him in magazines."

"Really?" Claire is secretly fuming inside, but she keeps her mouth shut. She even smiles. "So what else can you say about Gabriel Tan, the owner of this mansion and host of this 'actually not cool' party?"

The man looks at her sideways and slowly shakes his head, as though he's looking at a new ċȯċkroach species. "Either you've been living under a rock these past many years, or you just came from some far-flung country with no access to mass media." The man sips his ċȯċktail. "Sure, Gabriel is an awful human being, but it doesn't hurt to be one of his business connections. I'm here for the food and the booze and the women—sorry, you're not my type—and since I've got an invite, why not cash it in? But if you're asking if Gabriel is someone you'd want to be friends with, then let me tell you: No. Simply because he's a sociopath. He treats everyone cruelly. He thinks of no one but himself. So he hosts these parties to overcompensate, to announce to the world that he's fine. In reality, he's the filthy, spineless, wriggling creature you find rotting at the bottom of a mud pond, making everyone sick with his sheer toxicity. But you'll be in for a nasty surprise. So if you're here because your boss sent you to perhaps network with this crowd, then I'm telling you, you're setting yourself up for heartbreak."

Claire couldn't decide if the man's completely wrong, but to be honest, some of what he said are actually spot-on. But then again, it's not totally accurate. Gabriel has many faults, but to paint him as this total failure of a human being is really, really taking it too far. So she says, "You seem to know Gabriel all too well. You personally know him? You work with him closely? Do you have business with him."

"Then consider your interview cancelled," a voice from behind them says.

It's Gabriel, wearing blue trunks with a towel draped over his shoulders. Rage in his eyes. "In fact, I'm blacklisting your magazine and all its sister publications from getting any access to any of our events from here on. We don't want your kind here."

The man blanches. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Tan, I'm really sorry. I didn't know you're here." The man's voice quakes with every syllable. "Please forgive me, I didn't mean what I just said."

"Oh, really?" Gabriel smiles a rather joyless smile. "A sociopath, you say? A filthy, spineless, wriggling creature you find rotting at the bottom of a mud pond, you say? That's rich coming from the likes of you."

The man instantly grabs Gabriel's feet as he begs and profusely apologizes. "Please forgive me, Mr. Tan. Please! I have now seen the error of my ways! Everything I said is a lie! You are the font of wisdom, the foremost leader of the free world—"

"—the 'leader of the free world' is the United States president, you dummy!" Gabriel wriggles out of the man's grasp. "Now get out of my sight!"

"Please, Mr. Tan," the man still begs, kissing the ground now. "I beg you! Just give me a minute—"

"Get out! Out of my sight!" Gabriel is furious now, his face red with rage. "Before I—"

He doesn't finish his words—immediately, the palace guards (yes, that's what they're called) are upon the man, dragging him out of the scene.

Gabriel becomes aware of it, too. He claps his hands. "What's the hold-up? The party continues, come on!"

And as if on cue, the music resumes, the thump-thump-thump of the DJ's beats suddenly energizes the crowd, and everyone resumes conversation.

Gabriel looks at her. "What's that you're wearing?"

"It's a bathrobe. Isn't it obvious?"

"No," Gabriel says. "Underneath that. Why are you so swaddled with cloth? No one's gonna steal your merchandise here."

Claire pouts. "I was looking for you. If we're a couple, it's awkward that I'd be standing alone here without you."

Gabriel makes a small laugh. He's over the recent sour episode. "I was just right beside the door when you walked in. I had seen your mouth falling open when you saw the party. It's so easy to impress you."

"No, it's not—"

"—See, you were so taken in by that man!"

"Well, I couldn't stand there and do nothing while he ȧssassinates my character."

"That's a big word, 'assassinate'." Claire smiles. "No one can ȧssassinate your character, Gabriel. You are a shining work in progress, but those who do know you know the real you. There's no need to prove anything to the world at large."

Gabriel sighs. "That's easy to say if you don't have a hundred companies riding on the prestige and integrity of the Gabriel Tan name. My name has a lot to do with my companies' corporate image. You besmirch my name, it might affect the stock value of dozens of companies, big and small."

Claire stares at Gabriel's face and sees earnestness; this man isn't bluffing. He really believes in what he's saying. But there's only a small thing: isn't Gabriel aware of how people generally regard him as a monster? The receptionist at his very office, Mrs. Gomez, for example. And of course, the very deal he has with her: he wouldn't make her this extraordinary deal of employment if people—his previous executive ȧssistants—could stand him.

Suddenly, the DJ stops the music and takes the mic. "Let me just acknowledge the presence of one of our esteemed guests, the CEO of Lifestyle Maxx Cosmetics. The only, the only—"

Both Gabriel and Claire look to the direction of the pool entrance coming from the mansion's garden. Everyone waits with bated breath.

"Miss Michelle Alcantara!"

Everyone oohhs and aahhs when Michelle appears, walking down the edge of the pool in her incredibly sėxy two-piece swimsuit.

Claire is stunned; when she glances at Gabriel, she sees his mouth slowly falling open as Michelle approaches them.

Then Michelle faces the crowd, lets the spotlight glorify her voluptuous form, before she dips in the pool and mingles with the jet-set crowd.

And all the while, Claire stares at the whole spectacle looking like she's been bitten by a snake: she's white as sheet, swaddled in that fluffy bathrobe that makes her feel like she's the ugliest woman on planet Earth.