To me, it was the most valuable dress on the terrace.
My mother had given it to me years earlier. I could still remember standing in front of her bedroom mirror while she adjusted the hem with tiny silver pins held between her lips. We had laughed when I tried to turn too quickly and nearly pulled the fabric from her hands. She had spent an entire afternoon making certain the dress fit the way she thought it should. When she was finally satisfied, she stood behind me, smoothed the shoulders, and said that a woman did not need to wear something expensive to enter a room with dignity. She only needed to remember that her worth had been settled long before anybody in the room began offering an opinion.
I had heard those words many times, but they seemed particularly useful at events like this one. The gown had a simple neckline and a graceful, understated shape. Its fabric had softened over the years, and one seam bore the almost invisible evidence of my mother's careful stitching. When I touched that seam, I could remember her hands. There were newer dresses in my closet, dresses that probably would have impressed the guests more. None of them carried that memory. I wore the navy gown because it reminded me of who I was when nobody was watching.
For the first half hour, I was content to be almost invisible. I listened to music, admired the city, and occasionally exchanged a few pleasant words with people passing near the railing. The air was warm without being heavy. Every time a breeze moved across the terrace, the little lights overhead trembled, and the city seemed impossibly peaceful from so high above its noise. I remember thinking that the view was a welcome reminder of how small the evening's social ambitions really were.
Then a woman's laugh cut across the music. It was bright and theatrical, several notes louder than the joke seemed to require. I turned and saw a blonde woman in a silver sequin gown standing beside a cluster of businessmen. She was beautiful in a carefully constructed way. Her hair was arranged perfectly, her diamond earrings flashed whenever she turned her head, and her makeup looked untouched by the hours that had already passed. Even from a distance, I could see how deliberately she occupied space. She leaned toward whoever held the room's attention and angled herself into every photograph.
I soon learned that her name was Chloe Bennett.
There is nothing shameful about ambition. I admired people who worked hard for opportunities, especially in a city where a single mistake could erase years of effort. But Chloe's ambition seemed to have a particular shape: she was warm toward people she believed could help her and cold toward everyone else. When an important guest spoke, she listened as though collecting jewels. When someone less influential approached, her interest disappeared so abruptly that the contrast was almost painful to watch.