CHASE
The Metropolitan Museum glitters like a jewelry box designed to hold New York's wealthiest, the facade illuminated by strategic spotlights that make the limestone glow. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors polished to mirror shine. Champagne fountains bubble and fizz, the sound mixing with string quartets playing something classical and forgettable. Women in gowns worth more than cars glide past in clouds of perfume—Chanel, Dior, Tom Ford—the scents expensive and cloying. Cameras flash as celebrities and socialites pose on the steps, all of them here for the same reason: to be seen.
I adjust my cufflinks—platinum, custom-made—and step out of the car into air thick with summer humidity and ambition. The Sterling name opens doors now. No more hiding, no more pretending to be nobody. The valet takes my keys with a deferential nod, recognizing either my face or the car, or both.
