Enter Jamal Rivers.
He walked into the ballroom wearing a navy suit. It was tailored to perfection, featuring a neat fade and a simple, leather-banded watch. It was the kind of “stealth wealth” that screams quality to those who know, but looks “basic” to those who only value flash. He moved through the crowd slowly, hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning faces with the precision of a hawk.
He had already been stopped once. At the entrance, a security guard had looked him up and down with a curled lip.
“You with catering, sir? Staff entrance is around back.”
Jamal had merely smiled, a small, patient expression, and produced the heavy black invitation card with the silver seal. The guard had stepped aside, embarrassed but still suspicious.
Inside, the energy was no better. Two women in shimmering sequined gowns glanced at him, then instinctively shifted their clutches to their other arms, as if his proximity alone might depreciate their jewelry. A man in a tuxedo cut right in front of him at the bar.
“Staff waits until the guests are served, right?” the man chuckled, grabbing a scotch.
