He pulled my hand off the door. “Enjoy it while it lasts.” He shut it.
I watched him walk around to his side, ready to say more, but he already had his phone to his ear before he reached the door. He slid in mid-conversation, and I sat quietly, watching the road ahead, hoping he would finish the call before we arrived.
The gates opened. And we drove in. I pressed my back into the seat and stared through the windshield.
Holy mother of God, we drove into heaven.
“Now that we are all here, let’s have dinner,” Madam Regina gestured toward the dining area, and everyone moved.
I was still catching up to the mansion itself. Walking through it felt like stepping into something that belonged only in magazines. A place that made you aware of your posture and the exact angle of your shoulders. Every surface was polished, every piece of furniture placed with the intention that made you feel like sitting down required permission. People actually lived like this? While people like me were out there calculating rent.
We were having dinner with the Mark Blackwood family. The Governor of Florida. A face I recognized from news segments, the serious man behind the podium saying serious things aboutserious matters. And now he was pulling out a chair at the same table I was apparently sitting at.
I fixed my posture and focused on looking like I belonged.
His daughter, Malia, sat across from me. She was put together, the sort of polish that didn’t happen by accident. She has been watching me since we walked in. Apparently, this was the woman Dmitri was supposed to marry. I remembered her name was Malia, but I never knew she was the governor’s fucking good-looking daughter.
I had no makeup on and didn’t have time to see how I looked. The shoes saved me from shame. When we arrived, a maid appeared with the pair Caitlin bought earlier. It meant Dmitri had called ahead, which meant he thought of it.
I reached for the water glass and took a sip. This was uncomfortable.
We were served soon after, and everyone began to eat as they talked. Madam Regina leaned toward Malia’s mother the way women did when they picked up a thread they had set down many times before. Laughter followed, and glasses were raised at the same moment. Madam Regina was close to this family.
I took a bite and listened as the conversation switched to inflation. They spoke about hardship the way people do about the weather, always expecting it to pass. I remembered the month I paid the electricity bill two weeks late. I still stood in the kitchen, counting what was left for us to buy food. Yet here, they expected hardship to pass easily.
My eyes drifted to Malia. She moved through the conversation without effort, her contributions shaped by classrooms I had never sat in. For me, I gained my knowledge from life and old borrowed books.
“I think we can all agree the current inflation is a temporary correction,” Mark said, cutting into his steak. “The market always stabilizes.”
Everyone nodded in agreement except me. Well, Dmitri, as well.
He was entirely quiet, the kind that wasn’t an absence but a choice. I turned slightly and found him lifting his glass, eyes already on me.
I looked away fast and reached for my water, but froze when his hand came down on my thigh. Confused, I lowered my eyes to his hand, just to see what it was doing there. But I caught the fresh bruises on his knuckles. Did he hit something?
“You seem bored by the topic,” Dmitri said, loud enough for everyone to turn to me.
Heat crawled up my neck. I looked at Dmitri, then at the others who were waiting for me to answer a question I hadn’t raised my hand for.
“No, of course not.” I smiled to convince them.
“Oh, forgive us, darling,” Madam Regina laughed lightly. “We forget ourselves.”
“Not at all,” I assured her, because they could talk about whatever they wanted.
“What do you think about inflation in the state?” Malia’s mother asked. Her voice was smooth, but her eyes said something else entirely. She didn’t offer her name when I came. Maybe she assumed I wouldn’t need it.
“I think it depends on who you’re talking about.” I kept my voice low. “When prices go up, people like you might delay a property purchase or adjust an investment. But others choose which bill to pay late that month.” I paused. “Rent has gone wild across parts of Florida. You call it temporary, but for families already behind, every temporary month stacks on another.”
The table was quiet in a scary way. But I kept going before I could talk myself out of it.
“If a small shop owner pays more for supplies, they raise prices. Customers will buy less, and the shop earns less. It’s achain, and when it tightens, the weakest link goes first.”
Malia looked bothered. “So you’re saying inflation only hurts low-income households?”
“I’m saying it hits them the hardest,” I said. “Because there’s no cushion. If you have investments, you can wait for the recovery. But if you’re living week to week, there’s no waiting. You feel it the same day the price changes.”
“And the solution?” Malia pressed. “Government control? Price caps? Intervention?”
