The Raise of James Morrison.

Chapter 3

"I understand," James said.

"No, I don't think you do." Emily's eyes bored into his. "I need you to keep your mouth shut. Don't talk unless someone asks you a direct question. Don't draw attention to yourself. And whatever happens whatever anyone says to you you smile, you nod, and you take it. Got it?"

James's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Got it."

"I mean it, James." Emily's voice turned almost pleading, though there was no warmth in it. "I know my family can be… harsh. I know they'll say things. But you cannot embarrass me tonight. Not in front of everyone. Please."

"I won't," James said quietly.

Emily studied him for another moment, then seemed to decide he was sincere. She turned back around and pushed through the doors, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

James followed.

Inside, the Anderson estate was even more impressive vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, walls lined with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. The main hall had been transformed for the party, with tables draped in white linen, elaborate floral arrangements, and a small string quartet playing softly in the corner.

Guests milled about in clusters, champagne glasses in hand, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. Everyone was dressed to the nines men in tailored suits, women in cocktail dresses and pearls. James, in his damp jacket and worn jeans, felt like a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas.

Emily was immediately swarmed by a group of women, all of them cooing over her dress and asking about her latest work project. She smiled, laughed, and slipped seamlessly into the role of the accomplished, elegant heiress.

James stood a few feet behind her, holding his soggy bag of chocolates, and tried to make himself invisible.

"Emily! Oh my God, you look amazing!"

"Is that a Valentino? It's gorgeous!"

"How's the marketing campaign going? I heard you landed the Westbrook account!"

Emily beamed, soaking in the attention. "It's going well, thank you. And yes, this is Valentino—I picked it up during my last trip to New York."

One of the women, a blonde in a red dress, glanced over Emily's shoulder and seemed to notice James for the first time. Her smile faltered slightly.

"Oh… James is here too."

The energy in the group shifted, just a fraction. Emily's smile tightened at the edges.

"Yes, of course," she said smoothly. "It's a family event."

"Right, right." The blonde's tone was polite but distant, the kind of tone you'd use when acknowledging a piece of furniture. She turned back to Emily without another glance at James. "Anyway, you have to tell me about the Westbrook campaign. I heard Richard Westbrook himself requested you personally…"

James tuned them out. He'd heard variations of this conversation a hundred times. He wasn't part of Emily's world, and everyone knew it.

He drifted toward the side of the room, where a long table had been set up to display the birthday gifts. It was an impressive spread—elegantly wrapped boxes, gift baskets overflowing with luxury goods, envelopes that undoubtedly contained checks with a lot of zeros. In the center of the table sat a massive display: a jewelry box made of polished mahogany, at least two feet tall, with gold inlay and a small plaque that read "To Grandma, with love—The Harrisons."

James set his bag of chocolates down at the far end of the table, where it looked painfully out of place.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up."

James didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The voice was smug, drawling, and far too familiar.

David Anderson. Emily's cousin.

James turned slowly. David stood with his arms crossed, a smirk plastered across his face. He was tall, good-looking in a polished, country-club kind of way, and he wore his arrogance like a second skin. Behind him, a small crowd had started to gather, drawn by the promise of entertainment.

"Hey, David," James said evenly.

"'Hey, David,'" David mimicked, his voice dripping with mockery. "That's all you've got? No 'good evening, Sir' no 'nice to see you'? Where are your manners, James?"

James said nothing. He'd learned a long time ago that engaging with David only made things worse.

David's smirk widened. He strolled over to the gift table and picked up James's bag of chocolates, holding it up like a piece of evidence.

"What's this?" he asked loudly, making sure everyone nearby could hear. "This your big contribution to Grandma's birthday?"

A few people turned to look. James felt the weight of their stares.

"Handmade chocolates," James said quietly. "From River Street."

There was a pause, and then David burst out laughing.

"Handmade chocolates? From River Street?" He looked around at the gathering crowd, grinning. "Did you all hear that? James here brought chocolates to Grandma's eightieth birthday."

A ripple of laughter spread through the onlookers. James's face burned, but he kept his expression neutral.

"Do you even know what today is, James?" David continued, his voice full of mock concern. "This is a milestone birthday. Eighty years old. And you show up with… what, a ten-dollar box of candy?"

"They're her favorite," James said quietly.

"Oh, they're her favorite," David repeated, his tone oozing sarcasm. He set the bag back down on the table with exaggerated care, then gestured grandly toward the mahogany jewelry box in the center. "You see this, James? This is what a real gift looks like.”