The first thing people noticed about me that afternoon wasn't the Porsche. It was the shirt. A plain white button-down shirt.

The annual Seattle Tech-Philanthropy Gala was the social event of the year. Hundreds of billionaires, politicians, and media moguls gathered under the glass dome of the Chihuly Garden and Glass museum. Richard Vance was the guest of honor, parading his son Julian around in a neck brace for sympathy points.

I had never attended one in my life.

At 7:00 PM, my Aston Martin pulled up to the red carpet. The paparazzi, expecting celebrities, lowered their cameras for a moment when the door opened.

Then, they recognized me.

I wasn't wearing a gray sweater. I was wearing a bespoke, midnight-blue Tom Ford tuxedo that fit like armor. My hair was styled, my posture rigid. I didn't look down. I didn't rush past them. I stopped, turned to the cameras, and gave them a sharp, confident smile.

The flashbulbs erupted like a thunderstorm. The shouts were deafening.

"Mr. Thorne! What about the assault charges?!" "Elias! Are you stepping down from Horizon?!"

I didn't answer. I walked up the steps, radiating a cold authority that parted the crowd like the Red Sea. Sarah was waiting for me at the entrance, looking stunned.