I was standing at floor-to-ceiling windows over the Boston skyline, in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my parents’ first mortgage.

My parents had chosen the Larkfield for their anniversary gala.

The ballroom was on the ground floor.

I was on the top floor.

And for the last nine hours I had not been thinking about their champagne wall or their string quartet.

I had been finalizing a contract.