Chapter 59: Eye contact food ( Killian’s POV )
The blunt wealth of the upper class was shamelessly displayed on.
Clothes absurdly expensive screaming the name of overpriced designers,
Shoes to match the dystopian outfits like we just entered the Capitol of the Hunger Games,
A buffet that could assure that half of the city’s poor population could be fed with King crabs and fountains upon fountains of chocolate truffles.
But can you really critique the nonsense of such a shameless exhibit of wealth when you are part of the participants?
Nonetheless, this silly commentary about the shallowness of the modern aristocracy had no place in my mind when I entered the Prime Minister’s mansion.
I had only one thought- win the auction.
My aunt was pulled aside by a couple of walking botox bags wearing Prada. She smiled - the best the fillers would allow it- and followed them to a retreat corner of the room where other wives and moms of the powerful men were waiting.
After all, among all the mean, omegaphobic, entitled scums, my aunt was the proclaimed leader for decades.
I made my way to a waiter and grabbed a glass of champagne in hopes of easing my pulsing headache.
The young boy, maybe barely graduated from high school, smiled anxiously. I sighed and grabbed the key room from inside his pocket.
His rehearsed smile dropped, leaving a silent plea to conquer his face.