Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
He tersely nods his head. While his jaw doesn’t lock up when he turns us down a private road, I can see beads of sweat form on his forehead. We’re on the rich side of town. And while Dad does well, I know the families that live over here have money that can only come with generations of wealth accumulation. Celebrities who are the result of nepotism, third generation CEOs. The kind of wealth that transcends a single lifetime.
The client must be an important one, and by important I mean well-paying. My father has a will of steel, and it takes more than just a push to get him to bend to others.
From the little information I’ve gathered about the wedding, it’s for his client’s nephew but as the head of the family, the client is the one hosting it. Another thing that indicates old-school money, heads of families don't exist for the rest of us
I don’t see any houses as we pull down the road. I don't see any signs of life until a gate appears. There’s a man posted there. In a brief glance, I’m able to count three separate guns on him. Not your average mall cop. He has the firepower to take out a cop bar, and he doesn’t look like he needs it. With an intimidating amount of muscle and a scowl, he looks like he could make it through half an army single-handedly before bothering to break out into a sweat.
“What kind of wedding needs armed security guards?”
“Emma,” my father hisses. His voice is low in warning, his eyes cutting me like a knife.
I keep my mouth shut as he rolls down his window. He hands the invitation over to the guard who insists on seeing our IDs to match the names. He scrutinizes them before grunting his approval and waving us through the gates.
My father is a corporate lawyer. Once, I asked him what a corporate lawyer does, since they aren’t the kind that get TV shows. If I’m going to follow in his footsteps like he insists, I have to understand what he does. He made his job sound rather boring like he spends most of his days folded over a desk looking at contracts for businesses. I never gave much thought to what clients my father takes on, but I certainly wouldn’t have thought they would be the kind that need armed guards for a wedding.
The further we get into the property, the more his list of rules makes sense.
The security at the gate was only the beginning. There are more guards the deeper we get onto the property, and there are cameras hidden among the trees. Every move is being watched.
Don’t move, blink, or breathe without Father’s permission. Remain by his side. And absolutely no alcohol or dancing.
It’s going to be the most boring party I’ve ever been to, but I can survive a few hours. As soon as he’s sure we aren’t making a faux pas, my father is going to drag us out of there.
The road is never-ending. It twists and turns through the tall trees with no clear destination in sight. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for the mansion where the wedding is being hosted, Father’s client’s mansion, to become visible above the treeline.
Except mansion might be too loose of a descriptor. The towering building in front of us puts some of the finest hotels to shame. If royalty live in the state of New York, this would be their palace.
I glance at my father out the side of my eye. What clients has he been taking on that make this kind of money? Who needs armed security?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Maybe the security is something they hired for the wedding. I have heard of couples doing that before. Several armed guards seem like overkill, but they have the money for it.
There’s a decent-sized clearing in the house’s front that has been designated as a parking lot for the event. Despite its semi-remote location, the house is obviously meant to accommodate large gatherings. The parking is already filled with only a few open spots.
Father insisted on taking his classic car to the wedding, the one that rarely leaves the garage. I thought it had been funny at the time, but now I see why. The cars surrounding us cost more than the past four-year tuition for my private school. His Subaru would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And since he is convinced we need to blend in with the others here, the classic car was the right idea.
I survey the people lingering in the parking area. They’re talking amongst each other, an air of familiarity surrounding them. Though they range in age, there is a high level of attractiveness that supersedes the generational gap. Plastic surgery can do that.