As we approached the grand double doors of the main entrance, the sheer contrast of our appearance became a physical weight.
I was covered in mud from my waist down, my jacket was missing, and my shirt was torn at the shoulder.
Eleanor was shivering violently, her hair matted to her head, her hand still white-knuckled around that old leather purse.
We stepped onto the dry, heated stone of the grand portico, our muddy shoes leaving dark, wet tracks on the pristine white marble.
Before we could even reach the handle, the heavy glass door swung open, and a man stepped out to block our path.
He was young, perhaps in his early thirties, with slicked-back hair and a perfectly tailored black suit that screamed expensive authority.
His name tag read *Marcus Thorne, Guest Relations Manager*.
His eyes took one look at our muddy clothes, our shivering frames, and the battered purse in Eleanor's hand, and his face instantly twisted into a sneer of pure disgust.
"Stop," he said, stepping forward and placing a hand on my chest, pushing me back slightly. "You two can't come in here."
I took a deep breath, trying to maintain the dignity that seventy-two years of life had given me.
"We're expected inside," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in my limbs.
Marcus Thorne let out a short, mocking laugh, hếch cằm, his eyes scanning us from head to toe with blatant contempt.
"Expected? Look around you, old man. This is a private, black-tie charity event for the elite."
"I am well aware of what event this is," Eleanor said, her voice rising with a quiet authority that usually commanded boardrooms. "Please check the guest list."
Thorne didn't even glance at the tablet held by the hostess standing just inside the foyer.
Instead, he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, threatening whisper as he tried to shield the wealthy guests inside from seeing us.
"I don't need to check anything," he hissed, waving his hand dismissively. "I said leave! You're holding up the entrance, and you're ruining the aesthetic of this establishment."
"You don't know who you're speaking to," Eleanor warned, her eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity.
Thorne nhếch mép cười khẩy, a smug, arrogant grin spreading across his face as he gestured to our ruined clothes.
"Oh, I know exactly what I see. Two vagrants trying to sneak into a high-society party for a free meal and a warm room."
My blood ran cold, not from anger, but from a sudden, sharp realization.
As Thorne raised his hand to wave us away again, his cuff slipped back, revealing a very specific, high-end watch.
It was a custom-made timepiece with a dark green face—a limited-edition watch that our company, Carter Enterprises, had commissioned as a gift for our executive board members.
Only ten of those watches existed in the world.
And then, my eyes drifted to the podium just behind him, where his personal phone lay face-up.
The screen lit up with a new text message from a contact saved only as 'S'.
*Are they handled?* the message read.
My heart hammered against my bruised ribs as I looked from the phone back to Thorne's arrogant, mocking face.
He wasn't just a snobbish manager.
He was waiting for us.