The table was marked with a little drawing of a balloon and was clearly set aside for the youngest guests at the party.

“Nicholas, that’s the children’s table,” I said, staring at him in disbelief.

“Great-Aunt Beatrice will be there too, and since she’s mostly deaf, you two will be very comfortable together,” he replied, as if he were doing me a favor.

“You want me to sit with toddlers?” I asked.

His patience finally snapped, and he told me I simply didn’t fit in with the people who’d come here to network and close major deals.

“You’re not on their level, so just sit in the back, eat your meal, and please try not to embarrass me,” he muttered.

My throat tightened with anger as I reminded him that I worked just as hard as anyone else in the room.

He let out a short, mocking laugh before telling me that my “little freelance blog” didn’t count as a real career.

“I don’t have time for this, so stay at Table Nineteen and don’t even think about approaching Emmett Stewart when he arrives,” he ordered.

He told me a billionaire CEO like Emmett was completely out of my league, then walked off to greet a group of men in expensive suits.

I watched him move through the crowd, and he had no idea that the man he’d just forbidden me from speaking to was actually my biggest client.