The Zuboff Party: Seduction

May 9, 2020. Evening. The Zuboff mansion.

There isn’t nearly as much fanfare when I make my entrance to the party this time. A couple quick glances followed by upturned noses from the snobs as they realise I’m not walking in with Tiffany, and not a single greeting by those hanging out on the quarter-acre front porch.

I suddenly realise how much of the warmth I’ve received, both at the Getty Ball and the parties of my youth, was due to my connection with the Najbreit name. It leaves a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, but it’s not a new one—no, I’ve known this taste for a while. It’s just another reality check.

I pass by women with low-plunging necklines and men in artfully ruffled shirts, keeping my expression neutral. There is one lady that I’m looking for tonight, and I don’t even know if she’ll be here.

Chances are good that Hanna Maria just threw my invitation away.

The Zuboff mansion is gigantic. Built to mimic a Victorian mansion, the house is six stories tall, not counting the telescope dome tucked into the back of the building itself. Gas powered streetlamps flicker as I walk up the cobbled path towards the entrance of the house itself, and I flash my invitation for the guards standing at attention by the main door.

The room I enter into is an imposing space, dominated by dark wood and a more-than-life-sized portrait of the Zuboff couple staring down at the few of us lingering about the entrance. I notice that most of them are holding the stems of wine glasses.

“Hey, sorry, first time here,” I say, intruding upon a two young couples chatting with one another. “Where could I get myself a glass of red?”

“There’s an open bar on the second floor, big mezzanine, got some Roman sculptures, you can’t miss it,” one of the guys says. He claps me on the back. “Just don’t get in and over yourself, okay? Zuboffs keep it pretty tame, but…”

“Can’t put a guard in every room,” his wife smiles at me with her sparkling teeth. “And some people, they might not like you much for the stunt you pulled last week.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say, nodding at them. “It’s appreciated.”

They turn away from me then, and I make my way up a curving staircase to the second floor. The mezzanine opens up to the third and fourth floors, and I can see people chatting on the upper balconies, laughing and clinking glasses. A quick sweep across the space confirms my suspicion—no sign of Hanna Maria here.

After fixing myself up with a drink, I take to exploring the rest of the mansion. I wander through dimly lit corridors, brushing past businessmen with actresses on their arms and actors with supermodels on theirs, feeling awfully empty-handed as I push into yet another room, only to see it occupied by a group of fat men in suits having a hushed conversation.

The adjacent room is empty of people, just a couple of chairs arranged to face one another and a cabinet full of china in the back, but for a shaft of starlight that falls in through the window, illuminating the girl that stands there in a provocative blue dress, her bust any red-blooded teen’s wet dream.

She’s on her phone, but she looks up at the sound of me opening the door to the room.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today, Claude,” Morgan Merrygold says, tucking her phone away into her purse.

She’s wearing her blonde hair in a long triple braid, her copper eyeliner making her eyes that much more smouldering as she looks me up and down. She gives me a half-smile.

“You heard that Tiffany came alone and assumed that I wouldn’t be able to find an invite?” I ask, letting the door behind me fall shut.

We’re alone in this dark room.

“But you did manage to get one. You’re resourceful,” she says, walking up to the china cabinet and inspecting its contents.

I draw up next to her and examine the pottery on display. It’s good stuff. Maybe a gift from the Chinese people that the Zuboffs do business with.

“I told you at the Getty Ball. Class is forever,” I say. “Of course I got in.”

“Of course you did,” Morgan says. “Took you showing up Sean for me to realise that he’s just a poser. He was bragging about that Rolex to me just the day before, you know?”

I pause, thinking through my answer. I eventually tap on the cabinet.

“See the tiny glaze contractions on the underside of that bowl? I’d wager Imperial Porcelain, eighteenth century,” I say, pointing out the china through the glass. “Sometimes, it’s the flaws that make the whole.”

Tiffany would appreciate that line, I know.

“See, Sean would never have known that, that idiot,” Morgan says instead. She leans in close to me and looks up, batting her lashes. “You know I came here alone tonight, too?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have a line of suitors waiting around the block for you,” I say.

“I turned down some good-looking guys,” Morgan shrugs. “But I think I’m looking for someone with a bit more… experience.”

She winks at me.

Fuck.

My loins are telling me one thing—grab her, kiss her, fuck her, she might just be the sexiest thing you’ve ever come across, but… I didn’t come here tonight to fuck Morgan. If Hanna Maria were to ever catch wind that I’d slept with Morgan, well, I’m pretty sure I could kiss the STX deal—and my potential in with Father—goodbye.

Plus, did she just call me old? Is forty old?

“Then you should know, experience doesn’t come cheap,” I say, returning her wink.

I turn to leave, but I feel her grabbing my arm.

“What will it cost?” she asks, giving me a pleading look in my eye.

How **** of her.

I’m tempted once again. I could order her to her knees right now. She would be mine.

“You might catch wind of a deal. Or maybe you won’t. But when they ask you, tell the people who own your contract that splitting with MGM is a good idea,” I say. “We can talk then.”

I give her a cool smile and exit the room.