But there’s a short row of dresses in the crammed closet of my new apartment. I might not have dozens of options to choose from, but the night of the kickoff party, I have more picks than the one dress I had when I was eleven.

Kayla is dying of jealousy, and Alan and Sam have been hinting on being willing to escort me to the event—in case I needed an escort. I’ve declined, since I’m going with my mother. My father, as a current Democrat, is not really up to coming to support an Independent candidate. But my mother has a mind of her own, and when it comes to anything Hamilton, it seems so do I.

I wonder what sort of man Matt Hamilton has become, and if he’s the player he’s made out to be through the years as the fascination of the press with him has continued to grow.

I end up going for the yellow dress with an open back.

I comb my red hair down my back, add a shiny crystal clip to hold it back from my forehead, and head downstairs, where my mother waits in the Lincoln Town Car.

The last time I saw Matt, it was two years and eight months after that dinner at my parents. I’m taller then, officially a woman, and like my mother, I’m wearing a black dress. He’s dressed in black as well, standing next to his mother, who looks tiny and beat up as he puts his arm around her.

He’s older, a little thicker, a lot more masculine, and his eyes don’t shine on me anymore when I follow my father and mother to give him my condolences. And then I sit in the back, trying to hold back my tears as I watch Matt bury his father.

His mother cried softly, delicately, and the country cried; he stood there, strong and proud, the boy his father raised, the one trained to weather catastrophe and go on.

White decorations peppered with silver and blue surround us.

I’m a little bit outside of my comfort zone when I follow my mother into the ballroom. Walking through the doors is like opening the pages of a living encyclopedia full of important names—politicians, philanthropists, heirs and heiresses, along with people in positions at the top of the country’s best schools, Duke, Princeton, Harvard.

And suddenly all the artists and writers and poets …

Pulitzer and Nobel prize winners and faces you see in the blockbuster films of the year …

They somehow disappear with Matt Hamilton sharing this same room.

He’s at the far end, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair dark and gleaming under the lights. He’s wearing a perfect black suit and a tie the color of platinum, his shirt crisp white and contrasting against the gold-kissed hue of his skin.

My mouth dries up and my body seems to start working a little harder to pump the blood through my system.

It’s not easy to lose track of Hamilton, he’s the darling of the media.

From the rebellious teenager, to the private college guy, to the man he’s become. The youngest contender in history, my mother says he represents the golden years his father gifted us with—growth, jobs, peace. I want that. Every one of the thousands of supporters here tonight wants that.

As we wade through the glittering crowd, the air scented with the most expensive perfumes, I greet some of my mother’s acquaintances, all dressed to impress. The famous always gravitated toward the Hamiltons, their presence silent endorsements. It’s been nine years since the last time I saw Matt, give or take. (I actually know the exact time, but I want to pretend I didn’t count so religiously.)

He’s taller than he even seemed on TV, looming over the others by a good few inches.

And god.

He’s all man.

Sable hair. Espresso eyes. A Greek god’s body.

Confidence streaks out of every pore.

Even the black suit he wears is perfect.

If there was ever a man with an air around him of privilege and success, Matthew Hamilton is it.

The Hamiltons have been influential since they were born. Bloodlines dating back to English lords and ladies. They called him prince when his father was alive, now he’s about to take the king’s throne.

When People magazine called him “the Sexiest Man Alive,” Forbes called him the “Most Successful Businessman.” He disappeared for a few years after law school—quietly building, expanding his family’s real estate empire. Judging by the amount of press vans outside the inaugural party ballroom, the world is being taken by storm with his return.

Every headline today had the name Hamilton on it.

I’ve never seen so many important people together in one place in my life.

I can’t believe all of them came out in support.

The enormity of Matt’s reach hits me, and I’m suddenly awed that I could even snag an invitation to his kickoff party in the first place.

In Women of the World, we assist women going through rough moments in their lives—divorce, health problems, and trauma. The spirit of the organization is helpful and humble. Here, it’s along the same lines—everyone united for a common cause—but the air here is extraordinarily powerful.

The people here are the movers and shakers of the world. And tonight, their world revolves around Matthew Hamilton.

Matt is suddenly enveloped by an actress. She’s doting on him and wearing the skimpiest dress to flash her toned muscles and perky ass and breasts.

My stomach twists around in part envy, part awe. I have no idea what I could talk to that woman about, but I’m star-struck all the same.

“He’s so handsome,” my mother whispers as we head his way.

My nervousness increases. There are already too many people around him, waiting for an introduction. I watch him shake hands, the firmness of his grip, the way he makes eye contact. So … direct.

The knot in my stomach keeps tightening.

“I think I’ll just take a seat over there,” I whisper to my mother and point to a sitting area with the least number of people milling about.

“Oh, Charlotte,” I hear her say.

“I’ve already met him, let the others have their chance!”

I don’t let her protest anymore and instantly cut to my secluded spot. From there, I scan the crowd.

It’s so easy for me to strike up conversation with people at work, but this crowd would intimidate anyone. I spot J. Lo in a designer white dress at the corner of the room. I look down at my yellow-gold dress and wonder why I chose such a stand-out color when it would be better to blend in. Maybe I thought “fake it till you make it” would work. That I would look as sophisticated as everybody else here and soon feel that way.