Before Harris realizes it, his head bends low. He squeezes Desiree's hand and plows through the glittering ballroom toward Ablaze, tug-boating his date behind him. Yes, he's an asshole, but he can't help it right now. If he doesn't see for himself whether Ablaze has genuine feelings for her boyfriend or she's just placating her family, he's going to explode.

"She's so pretty," Desiree whispers into his ear.

If she ripped her hand from his, yelled at him to act like a human being or even slapped him down, he'd have dumped her right there and then. But her throaty whisper slows him down. The collar of his best shirt releases its grip on his windpipe, allowing for an intake of breath. Dress shirts are like monsters...

"I only don't understand the need for the pretentious moniker," Desiree continues, moving her hand through the air in time with her words. The lapis-lazuli and gold glitter over the nude glove on her wrist. "A keynote speaker Ablaze is hard to take seriously. This isn't TikTok."

The large screens announcing the presentations' order agrees with Desiree. It reads, Agatha Leung, social influencer and environmental activist, Singapore next to a photograph of Ablaze in her graduation outfit. In the picture, her hair blends with the black of her cape and the glance of her dark-brown eyes directed at the viewer is soulful. If a bit of red gives her even a spark of joy, he doesn't mind her being not hundred percent businesslike.

"It's probably a cultural thing," Harris says. "If she wants to call herself Ablaze, what's the harm?"

Single-mindedly, he makes the beeline for the table front and center.

At graduation from the Academy, also held in the Wisconsin Center's ballroom, Harris moved in a line with all other graduates. He then stood briefly at the stage, receiving applause. When he won the chess tournament, there was even less pomp and circumstance, and the whole thing was held in a school's gymnasium.

He keeps his pace moderate, so Desiree could properly glide on his arm. They are expected to join the head of the Academy, the major donors and the keynote speaker, Agatha 'the Ablaze' Leung.

Agatha. Ablaze. Miss Leung.

He doesn't care what the woman in a little black dress calls herself. Plain black is never plain when it's haute couture, and every stitch of Ablaze's dress is worth more than Harris rental suit.

Her gorgeous number is cut in Chinese style, with short sleeves and a narrow standing collar, slashed by a thin line of crimson at an angle, across the breast. Embroidery blooms on one shoulder. Perhaps, it takes away from the elegance of simplicity, but Harris won't have it any other way. Without this gold-and-crimson burst, Ablaze wouldn't be his Ablaze.

It's a fire-bird's face on her shoulder. Its wings must be at its back--and at Ablaze's back. Folded or opened, he wonders, craning his neck. For goodness' sake, are those wings folded or--

He steps up for a hand-shake with her and the design above her breast looms closer. This ain't a fire-bird. A fiery angel is what it is. Naturally!

"Ablaze, good to see you. It's been so long!" Harris quips. Or maybe he doesn't. The twenty-four hours since Friday dragged on for him. He's only come fully alive when back in her presence. "Allow me to introduce Desiree."

Ablaze smiles. So does Desiree.

"Harris told me so much about you!" the women exclaim and just as simultaneously burst into giggles. It's as if a conductor's invisible hand moves them.

It should be awkward, these two women making friends right in front of him, but Harris doesn't care. He's just... He's drawn into their bubble, impressed by how hostility is reshaped into a no-man's zone, where outfits, hairdos and threat level are assessed.

For a second, a thrill tickles his spine. For a second, he forgets that he's balancing on the brink of bankruptcy. That no matter what he glances at in his house, it needs fixing. That his mother abandoned them for losers.

He takes in the bright lights of the ballroom, the chandeliers and the white tablecloths, the virginal china and gleaming silverware. The wine glasses sparkling as if nobody ever touched them to their lips before.

And, of course, two women. They are so different in their beauty, yet so equal. This is life on another plane of existence. If he could exist in this moment forever, he probably would. As long as he walks out with--

The fourth person intrudes into his small group. Almost to the same degree as Harris is attracted to women, he's repelled by Oliver Appleby. It's not as simple as jealousy. After all, Desiree gives Ablaze a run for her money and she's from Milwaukee. That's even-steven.

There's something else in the air that makes Harris' finger sink behind his stiff collar again.

Oliver ignores the glamor of their surroundings. It's obvious he came from money, and, unlike Sam, he doesn't try to blend in with the masses. He wears his suit with an effortless grace, while Harris... Harris wiggles his collar loose.

Alas, society traps him with its conventions. He leaves his collar alone and outstretches his hand to Oliver. "I loathe interrupting the ladies' fun, so allow me to introduce myself. I'm Harris Sarkisian."

"Oliver," the man replies, meeting his hand with a bit of a slap, before clasping it. It feels like a mechanical test, of tensile strength or whatever. "Oliver Appleby."

His British twang sounds so posh, it can only be fake. Same with the freckled pink of his skin. His long, humorous face, his pale gray eyes, high brows and high forehead, and thick blond hair. Everything's bleached till it's spotless about him.

Scrubbed, Sam had described him, before he bailed, and that's exactly how Oliver seems to be. Scrubbed to a True Brit as identity. He could be an extra in some Regency movie.

"I'm forever in your debt." Oliver's arm wraps Ablaze's tiny waist as if he is lassoing her away from a pleb like Harris. "Your selfless bravery saved the most treasured soul in my life."

I don't remember saving you, hangs on the tip of Harris's tongue, but he pretends his lips curled because he just can't help smiling. He finds Desiree's hand.

"Just doing my job, Oliver. Just doing my job, as you do yours. That's how the world is. Some walk into the fire to save lives, others don't. All jobs are important."

"He's too modest!" Desiree exclaims, right into his ear. "When I saw the footage in the news, I had goosebumps all over. Dear Lord, that fireball! Made me glad I was safely in front of my TV."

Ablaze's glance takes on a harrowed look at the mention of the fireball. Oliver's arm tightens around her even more. He motions to the table with the other one. "Let's take a seat? Those heels look gorgeous, but it would be prudent to save the ladies' feet for dancing."

"Yes, I'm a little... I would rather sit." Ablaze walks, guided by the arm over the small of her back.

Harris gets a good look at the previously hidden part of the embroidered image. The angel's wings are folded. Yet, each feather is lovingly picked with red and gold threads.

He brings Desiree to her designated seat too. She sits on his right, so Ablaze is separated by two places from Harris--Desiree's and Oliver's.

The rest of the tables' occupants are in their sixties, distinguished and connected through a mycelial network of municipal rulership. Harris greets one of them, his neighbor on the left. Once the trivial banter is exhausted, he stretches toward their younger, outsider group.

Imperceptibly, the four of them close ranks, like the students selected to sit at the teachers' table at some event.

Desiree's hand slips into his, twining and untwining their fingers. She has beautiful fingers, made longer by her faux nails. Her eyes sparkle at him. The sincerity of it brings a heat of pleasant embarrassment to his cheeks.

Silence settles over their group. He forces himself to look up. "So, Oliver. You're in the coffee business, aren't you?"

The man nods. "I confess, I'm guilty of wringing adventure out of my humble profession. I started with brokering at the whole-sale events, but then—" he holds a pause, creating suspense. Distant chatter and laughter from other tables and clanging of plates on the waiters' trays fill in the gap.

Satisfied that he has their undivided attention, Oliver continues, "I can only describe it as the thrill of the hunt. It took a hold of my heart, driving me farther and farther afield, searching for smaller and more precious crops."

Desiree chuckles. "I always thought coffee was just a bitter necessity in the morning."

"It is, if you want it to be." Oliver's smile turns smug—or so it appears to Harris. Maybe Ablaze finds it charming. She sits quietly in her chair, her gaze fixed on Oliver's face. His profile is likely all she's seeing.

"But the rare gourmet varieties I seek out, well, you won't find it in your office coffee machine—"

Desiree's laughter tingles like a silver bell. "We have the very best coffee machine there, Oliver. It makes espresso and cappuccino."

Harris feels like burrowing his face into his date's hair, whispering, 'thank you'. Thanks to Desiree, not only does he look like a man of distinction, he can watch Oliver's face for any signs of conceit. So far, it's unnervingly open.

He can watch Ablaze too. Not because he searches for any nefarious streak. He just likes watching her, even if he's already found everything there's to know about their relationship. She's clearly impacted by Oliver's aura. Though what exactly about him impresses her so much, is hard to say. The man is reasonably handsome, but not a Hollywood heartthrob. Rich, but not exuberant. Pleasant on the surface, but also self-satisfied like a cat. She outshines him by a mile. Then why is she bewitched?

"The price is whatever people wish to pay," Oliver lectures Desiree. "I wouldn't quote, even if we're in America where people are more forgiving of faux pas. Classy is the mark of my trade."

They all laugh, God only knows why. Even Harris joins in. "Fascinating! I take it you travel a lot with this job?"

"Yes. I saw the places that made me dizzy with excitement when I read their names as a kid. Sumatra, Columbia, Thailand... nothing like going off the grid to find something truly special."

What Harris hears is a list of troubled places, far out of the way, full of dangerous connections to acquire for a villain. It's hard for him not to squint like a detective in one of his Dad's live crime dramatizations.

Oliver, oblivious to Harris' casting him, snuggles Ablaze close. "But I'm giving up my nomadic ways for her."

Harris perks up, pointedly ignoring the hint of the relationship moving to a committed stage. Ablaze wouldn't have teased him for a week, if she were serious about Oliver. Well, maybe verbally she would, because flirting is a part of her image. But the other, subliminal signals... she can't fake those. She likes him. 'Likes' likes him.

"Business is slowing down, Oliver?" he asks about as sweetly as Desiree and Ablaze giggled when they've just met.

"No, no. I truly am ready to settle down. I lucked out and picked one of the most elite coffee houses in Asia for a song."

Harris cringes as he imagines what 'a song' might represent for the posh people. Something far beyond his reach is their pocket change.

The waiters bring around the first course, a wild mushroom soup. Sarkisian senior would have loved the presentation and the earthy aroma.

Oliver waits for the women to start, then dips his spoon and eviscerates a mushroom with his bleached-white teeth. If the world was fair, black gills of the fungus would stick to them. But no, they shine as they did before, when he put the silver spoon down.

"I want to expand the chain and make it more hip. The Leungs are interested in franchising my start-up at their resorts. I'm afraid I'll be traveling to the office and back from now on."

"Uh-huh." Like he knows anything about big business. But he files it away.

Something distracts him from focusing on Oliver's business dealings. He feels his father taking over in his mind, even though he didn't cook the meal. "Ablaze, you're not eating? Do you want something else?"

"No. It's all delicious." She circles her spoon in the soup, then lifts her eyes to give him a secretive smile. "It doesn't have coconut."

He basks in their private joke. "Nor cinnamon."

"She's just worried about her speech," Oliver cuts in. "Darling, you don't have to go all out for these people. Just say a few words."

"Ablaze has an audience of millions wanting to hear her speak." And Harris normally hates every one of those needy people. Normally.

He realizes he's bristling only because Oliver was so blasé about Ablaze's profession. He also realizes that Desiree's nail traces his neck in a warning to chill. Ablaze's glance flickers to the goings-on above his collar, then flickers away.

"I'll be fine," Ablaze says with a toss of her head.

The energy he was missing all night is coming back. She pushes to her feet, as her name is announced, waves to the polite applause. Her hand grips the white tablecloth at the edge of the table. "Can I ask you a favor, Harris?"

"Anything." It sounds loaded. He doesn't regret it.

"I want you to sit with the panel during my keynote speech."

He glances toward the dais. There is a stand for the speaker, but there is also a table draped with dark cloth, long enough for twelve chairs with oval backs to spread down its length. Mostly, they are occupied already, but some are waiting for VIPs to press down the cushions.

Harris imagines himself sitting there, staring at the ballroom full of white round tables and ovals of faces. It doesn't feel like the place meant for him, but this is America, the land of a self-made man. He sucks his teeth.

"Will you?" An unsure note lilts in her request, as if it's an inappropriate proposition. Ablaze is nowhere near to touch him, but he feels her gaze like warm fingers brushing his cheek, as real as Desiree's. She needs him. And he's just promised anything.

Perhaps, she wants to infuse a personal note into her speech, awake sentiment with a public expression of gratitude. Perhaps, she feels safer with him being close. Either way, it's him and her, and—

Desiree's nails tap his forearm slightly. Don't get entangled, darling. Or, maybe, she reminds him not to be a jerk, lusting after another guy's woman at a party, abandoning his own date.

He catches Desiree's fingers and squeezes them for reassurance. They came together, they'll leave together. That much he owes.

But he's decided. He needs to be there, on that stage with Ablaze. She must see that she isn't alone. The two of them must show Oliver that everything isn't as set in stone as he imagines.

"Sure thing. Just say when." Harris keeps his voice light, as if he wasn't swept by conflicting emotions a moment ago.

"Right about now," Ablaze replies.

He pushes to his feet instead of an answer. Chivalry, dead? Never!