Chapter 8 - The Red Carpet Gala
The night of the Asterline Innovation Gala was nothing short of breathtaking.
The three-story glass headquarters downtown was bathed in soft amber uplighting, strings of white fairy lights winding through the architectural sculptures in the courtyard. A red carpet spanned the front entrance, flanked by television cameras, lifestyle journalists, and photographers snapping pictures of arriving dignitaries in designer gowns and bespoke tuxedos.
Inside, a live string quartet played classical renditions of modern hits, while waiters in crisp black vests circulated with trays of vintage champagne and artisan hors d'oeuvres.
I stood on the second-floor mezzanine, wearing a midnight-blue silk evening gown with a structured capelet, looking down at the glittering crowd. My life, my company, and my peace of mind were all operating at peak performance.
At 8:15 PM, the glass revolving doors spun open, and my parents walked in.
They had pulled out all the stops. Dad wore a pristine, custom-tailored tuxedo that masked his recent weight loss and stress lines. Mom was draped in emerald silk and vintage diamond earrings, putting on her bravest, most radiant society smile.
They clearly expected to be intercepted by a public relations manager, ushered into the VIP lounge, and greeted with effusive apologies and warm hugs from their CEO daughter.
Instead, a polite young hospitality coordinator stepped into their path with a digital tablet.
“Good evening. Welcome to the Asterline Gala. May I have the name on your invitation?”
“Paul and Joanne Mercer,” my mother announced smoothly, tilting her chin up with practiced poise. “We are Dr. Rowan Mercer’s parents.”
The coordinator tapped the screen, scrolling through the master database. A polite, practiced smile remained on her face.
“Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer. We’ve been expecting you. Right this way, please.”
She didn't lead them toward the VIP mezzanine. She escorted them past the bar, past the main ballroom, all the way down a long, narrow service corridor near the rear catering staging area, and out through a set of frosted double doors.
From my vantage point on the mezzanine, I watched the entire interaction unfold.
Dad looked confused, stopping near the edge of the service doors. “Excuse me, young lady, but shouldn't we be seated near the head table or the executive boxes?”
The coordinator smiled brightly. “Oh, no, sir. Dr. Mercer personally reviewed the executive seating charts this afternoon. She had very specific instructions regarding your accommodations.”
My mother’s smile flickered. “Specific instructions?”
“Yes, ma'am. You’ve been assigned a very exclusive table—right where the action is.”
The coordinator pushed open the doors, revealing a small, solitary table set up directly beside the kitchen swinging doors and the main catering staging station. It was flanked by three large rolling carts stacked with dirty dessert plates, spare linen boxes, and a buzzing ice machine.
To make matters worse, there was no name card for Paul and Joanne Mercer.
Instead, a crisp white card rested in the center of the table, written in bold, clean block letters:STAFF AUXILIARY / KITCHEN SUPPORT.
Mom gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “This... this is an outrage! We are her parents! We belong in the main ballroom!”
“I’m sorry, ma'am,” the coordinator said smoothly, stepping back inside. “Those are Dr. Mercer’s exact orders. Enjoy your evening.”
May you like
The heavy doors clicked shut, trapping my parents in the culinary waiting room of their own making.
I took a slow sip of my champagne, turned away from the mezzanine rail, and walked back into the warmth of the gala, leaving them to enjoy the view from the other side of the kitchen doors.
