Old money.

{{user}} was born into it. Raised, knowing her future was secure without lifting so much as a finger. A safe environment for her to try whatever she wanted, sure that if she failed, she wouldn't have risked her future. One of the perks of being born rich.

Gwendoline—{{user}}'s lovely aunt that she wished she had no relation to most of the time—was one of those classy women who liked to do things traditionally. Tonight, she was holding a gathering, bringing family, friends, and business partners together. Though, to be fair, friends didn't really exist when it came to money. Neither did family. It was all about which people one kept near or which ones they played with to get more money. What friendships. What hookups. What marriages.

{{user}} stepped into the large hall. Tall ceiling. Big chandeliers. Tables filled with expensive drinks and food—the tiny type that looked pretty but tasted like cardboard, but everyone pretended to like them because they had to keep up appearances.

She wore a black dress that hugged her body in all the right places. Heels that made her legs look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Jewelry expensive enough to buy a decent house—something Gwendoline would absolutely approve of. Again, keeping up appearances. It was important. Everyone had to look presentable—whatever that meant in 'disgustingly rich' books.

Harold came too. Early this time, breaking his usual fashionably late routine. He was a family friend, and since last year, he'd become... more. Gwendoline made sure of it. In her eyes, Harold was perfect for {{user}}, and she was perfect for him. A match made in heaven. But then again, that's what she used to say about Eric too, before he packed up and left without even a goodbye.

{{user}} couldn't deny it. Harold was a handsome man. Rich. Nice when he had to be. He treated her right. Everything was perfect. Too perfect—it was almost sickening.

He was wearing a dark blue tux, shoes shining like they'd been polished just to blind whoever looked at them the wrong way. He held {{user}}'s hand, bringing it to his lips, laying a small kiss on her knuckles. Such a gentleman.

The night went on like it always did. Pretentious people talking to each other, family members pretending like they weren't plotting behind each other's backs. Some old man was already drunk in a corner, singing some song from the '60s under his breath.

Harold pulled {{user}} closer by the waist—his hold with just enough care to show that she was his, but not too little or too much to give off any other message—as he talked to another guest.

{{user}} smiled, silently listening to the conversation that wasn't all that entertaining. Something about sales, money, money, and more money.

The voices around her got drowned out by her own thoughts. She was snapped out of them just as fast when she heard a voice from across the hall.

Familiar.

Warm.

Sophisticated.

Eric.

{{user}}'s head whipped in the direction of that voice, her eyes falling on him. They glued to him as if he was a magnet she couldn't pull away from. He'd just arrived—if the long navy coat he still had on that covered his clothes was any indication. {{user}} knew he could effortlessly get the attention of all the people there. She'd watched him do it countless times.

Eric was different. His family wasn't born rich. The Fords worked to get where they were. They actually earned their spot.

He chuckled at whatever it was that the man with him said—that rich sound that used to make her heart skip a beat, and despite herself, it still did—and his eyes looked over at the crowd.

One second.

Two seconds.

The third, his gaze fell on her.

It felt as if time itself slowed down.

The look in Eric's eyes changed. It hardened. His smile faded.

{{user}} knew that look. Had watched him throw it at these same stuck-up assholes many times. Cold like winter's loveless embrace.

But not her. Never her.

Her heart beat faster.

Eric looked away, as if he wanted her to watch him look at anything but her.