Rule Number Three

Rule Number Three: Never let others know what you're truly thinking or feeling.

Father and I exited the office and walked to the garden together, my left hand at the crook of his left elbow as he escorted me outside. He walked me over to our table and pulled out my chair for me. I curtsied and sat in the seat—back straight. legs together, ankles crossed, and hands placed on my lap. I idly watched the guests mingle and tried to maintain an interested expression even thought I felt my eyes glazing over in boredom.

"Hello," a man, maybe thirty, in a disgustingly bright blue suit greeted me from the side. I turned my head to the side, smile plastered on my face.

"Hello, I don't believe we've ever met," I greeted in return, standing from my chair. "I'm Vanessa Grant, welcome to our home."

I hated introducing myself this way, it felt haughty. It wasn't even my real name. I was given my father's last name, but for appearances, my parents pressured me into using my mother's surname at luncheons and other family hosted events. It was to make it clear that I'm going to be the successor to the Grant family fortune, as if the rest of the Elite didn't already know. The Elite newsletter would do an annual story about our family and dedicated a whole column to me. No one could possibly mistake me for anyone else, even if I did use my actual name. But alas, rules are rules.

"Oh darling, you don't have to stand," he said. "I was wondering if you'd mind my company?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm warned against keeping company with strangers."

He chuckled, "So coy. I'm Jackson Fairfield, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The Fairfields were one of the most notorious Elite families. They had a reputation of being ruthless and willing to do anything to cut a deal. It made them admirable in the boardroom and the business world, but I thought that just meant they were sleazy. Jackson Fairfield, in particular, was known to be the most cutthroat and borderline malicious. He also traipsed around with a lot of women, mostly celebrities, but never in a serious committed relationship. I thought it was obvious he wasn't interested in settling since he was spending all his energy on flirtations with commoners. Yes, to us, celebrities are commoners, though we build relationships with them.

"Mr. Fairfield, what a pleasant surprise that you would be able to make it to our little gathering today," I said. "I thought you would be too busy with work."

"Yes, well, my mother told me that you would be making an appearance and I just had to come meet you," he said smoothly, flashing my a dazzling smile. "Would you allow me to have a seat with you?"

"By all means," I invited waving to the empty table. "No one else is sitting now."

Jackson took the seat to my right, and angled his body towards me. His arm resting casually on the back of the chair. I turned to face him slightly as to not appear rude. I didn't want a lecture from my mother about proper etiquette and manners. I saw her peeking at me over by the refreshments while indulging in gossip with the other older women.

"I noticed that you addressed me as Mr. Fairchild, and I must stay I'm quite offended," he commented. "I'm not nearly old enough for that title in such a relaxed setting. Jackson, if you will."

"All right, Jackson," I acknowledged. "Are there any qualms you'd like to address?"

"How could I have qualms when I'm in the presence of such an enigmatic woman as yourself," he flirted.

I internally cringed and maybe gagged a little at his statement. I hoped my face appeared neutral, if not pleased by his compliment. I giggled for effect, read: to stroke his ego. I learned years earlier that the male ego is quite a fragile thing and the best thing to do for my own safety, and to not cause a scene or disturbance, is to feed into it.

"You think so highly of me," I said. "I'm really quite average."

"Nonsense," he refuted. "The heiress to the Grant Empire could be nothing else but extraordinary!"

And there it is! The sole reason he came to talk to me is because of who my family is and to butter me up so he could maintain good graces. And if he were lucky enough, a date or something of the sort to elevate his status. I didn't want to judge and lump him in with the rest, but the interaction has been consistent with my conversations before.

"The Grant Empire, you say? I've never heard my family referred to as such in the past. It's quite flattering," I quipped. "Is there a reason for the term, empire?"

"Well, you must know," Jackson continued. "You grandfather is quite magnificent in his work and building his conglomerate. And your mother, such a bright and vivacious addition to the Elite council. It is irrefutable that your family is the one that's holding much of the world's finances in its hands."

"And my father?" I asked.

I noticed that he purposed mentioned my grandfather and mother, which made sense because they're the direct lineage for the Grant family, but his obvious nonmention of my father rubbed me the wrong way. As per our earlier conversation, I knew that Dad didn't believed he fit in, and it wasn't just in his head. I've known all my life how people saw him. He was an outsider through and through. And more often than not, people like Jackson Fairfield went out of their way to purposely exclude him when talking about the Grant family success, and especially in context of the Elite council, though he is also a member.

"Well your father isn't exactly a Grant," Jackson explained. "He doesn't come from that lineage. He didn't even take the name when he was married."

"By your logic, then I too, am not really a Grant," I said as I tried my best to hold back my temper. The audacity of this vermin in front of me! "Please let me properly and correctly reintroduce myself to you. I'm Vanessa Johnson."

"Darling, there's no need to get all worked up," he tried to smooth over. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just meant that family succession is by blood and he's not from the Grant bloodline. You of course are a direct descendant, making this a moot argument."

I wanted so desperately to punch his smug face. The irritation growing as he dismissed my dad's hard work and status.

"So if we were to marry," I started, and he moved in closer, obviously interested in where this thought was going. "You would give up your surname? You'd trade it to be a Grant?"

"That's absurd!" Jackson roared with laughter. "Why would I leave my identity behind? I've made a name for myself, I would not give it up. And it's the woman's duty to take the husband's name. If we were to marry, Darling, you'd become a Fairfield and the Grant Empire would also be renamed to become the Fairfield Empire."

"Is that so?" I questioned. "Then why did you criticize my father did not take the last name when he had the chance?

"It wasn't a criticism per se, but taking on the Grant name would open so many more doors for him. It's a name of power and prestige!"

"Even more powerful and prestigious than Fairfield, wouldn't you say?" I challenged. I saw his eyes narrow slightly at my not-so-veiled insult.

"I would say Grant and Fairfield are pretty equal in standing," Jackson boasted. "We've come a long way."

I guffawed. I didn't mean to, but I did. I'd heard my grandfather talk about the Fairfields before, and it wasn't long ago that they needed a huge loan from the Elite council to get on their feet again. Admittedly, they have improved financially and managed to settle the debt, but to make the declaration that his family was in the same ranks as mine was unbelievably arrogant and delusional. Before Jackson could comment on my rudeness, I coughed and excused myself from the table to get myself a refreshment. I left him sitting alone, stewing at my insubordination. But I was not his subordinate, if anything he was mine, so I felt no guilt or remorse.

"What would the Lady be having today?" one of the bartenders asked me when I approached the bar. He looked friendly and he had the most captivating green eyes. I smiled easily, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. It was a quick and drastic change from how I felt when I stomped over.

"Please, address me as Vanessa," I replied. "I would like a Shirley Temple and your name."

"That's very bold," he said as he went to get the grenadine and ginger ale for my drink. I appreciated that he didn't judge me for not indulging in a mimosa or any other alcoholic drink. I preferred virgin drink and mocktails, and would often get a hard time for it by anyone and everyone.

"Your drink, Lady Vanessa," he offered, putting the glass in front of me on napkin and walked away.

I quirked an eyebrow. Every other drink on the bar came on a coaster and he completely ignored my request for his name! I looked down at the napkin when I lifted my drink and saw a scribble at the center, almost faded by the water from the condensation.

Matthew. No last name. Interesting.

I lifted my gaze back to him as he maneuvered the bar and served another patron. He seemed to be chatting with her with ease. Peculiar, I thought. A commoner engaging with the Elite women and them returning the pleasantries. It was nearly unheard of. He looked at me over his shoulder and winked. I'm embarrassed to say I blushed.

I watched as he served the woman her drink. She took out her wallet and handed him a tip, which he refused. Odd. I thought the service industry depended on tips. She seemed to have insisted that he take it and he reluctantly accepted. He gave her a pleasant wave as she walked away. I was too focused on him to see where she went. This fellow was quite intriguing. And I loved a good mystery. I waved him over when I saw him gathering some of the coasters and glasses back.

"Lady Vanessa, how is your drink? Did you want anything else?" Matthew attended.

"No, thank you, Matthew."

He grinned when I said his name.

"I don't recall telling you my name," he teased. "You must be clairvoyant."

"If I am, I'm doing a terrible job," I said. "You see, I'm having some difficulty getting your phone number from the spirits. Do you think you could help me out?"

He hunched over and laughed. I didn't know how to feel about the turn of events. Most men would be flattered that I wanted their phone number. Any of the Elite man-children would!

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm not laughing at you. I promise! I was just caught off guard. You're refreshing!"

"Thank you," I replied, extremely unsure of how to continue the interaction. I just asked for his number, was laughed at, and then complimented. What in the world?

"Here," he said, handing me a business card. "All my contact information is on there, except my address. You'll have to work your clairvoyant magic a little bit more to get that if you're interested."

This time I laughed at him. I accepted the card and put it in my cross body purse.

"I don't have a card to give you," I apologized. "But after this luncheon, I'll be sure to send you a message so you can have my number too."

"I'm looking forward to it," he said before walking away to continue doing his job, clearing the bar, washing glasses and mingling with other guests.

I wondered if he could tell I was watching him the entire time. If he did notice, he did an excellent job pretending he didn't. I left a hefty tip under my glass when I finished slowly sipping on my drink and turned to go back to my table. Thankfully, Jackson Fairfield left the area and I could relax in peace. At least, until someone else came to speak to me. I was excited for the luncheon to end, looking forward to conversing more with a certain bartender.