Meet Cute Monday #1

Mac x Henry - because con artists deserve love, too (right?)

I’m not supposed to be here. 

But the biggest lesson I’ve learned in my life of white collar crime (as some would call it) is that confidence is everything. If your shoulders are back, your gait is purposeful, and your heels are designer, people are unlikely to ask questions. There is no such thing as a closed door if you’re rich enough — or if you appear rich enough. 

Still: when it comes to “fitting in” at these events, I have to be realistic. The reality is that these people all have old money coursing through their veins. Since they were born, their every heartbeat has happened under the umbrella of Total Security. You can’t become that way; you’re either formed under those conditions or you’re not. You can dress a cactus up like a Christmas tree, but you can’t change its makeup, its history. I’ve done a good job of covering myself in a shit-ton of (very expensive) lights and baubles and all sorts of ornamentation. But if someone gets too close, they’d still see the barbed spikes that cover me. 

That’s why I have to be careful. Confident, not cocky. 

If they ask: a backstory that explains the spikes, doesn’t try to pretend they’re not there. A history that’s sad and tragic, but that positions Someone Like Them as the hero. They say everyone loves rooting for the underdog, but that’s not true: to the overdogs, a compelling underdog is something to fear, not celebrate. They want to feel like the Good Guy. So let them be. 

That’s how I came to be Mackenzie Albrecht. Adopted by Sally and Charles Albrecht (now deceased, RIP), Good Guys with deep pockets and philanthropic hearts. They plucked me out of poverty and brought me home to Connecticut’s Gold Coast, where the houses are big and the egos are bigger. An elite oasis for retired entrepreneurs, Greenwich could’ve been unkind to young Mackenze, an outsider with her tortured past — but instead, the town welcomed me into the (bill)fold with open, generous, magnanimous arms. I was one of the lucky ones. 

That’s my story. None of it is true, obviously. But “borderline con-woman who's been working the system since the ripe age of seven” doesn’t go over as well at parties. Especially not this kind of party. 

I walk in easily, following closely behind the group of suited men in front of me. The room is huge, the decor extravagant. It’s barely worth noticing at this point, because if you’ve been to one of these events, you’ve been to them all. The point isn’t for each to set a new standard of excellence; it’s to continue a long-standing tradition. “Newness” isn’t something to aspire to in this crowd. They’re of the “if it’s not broken, don’t fix it,” school of thought, and the irony of the fact that they’re only in this room because the fruits of some great great great grandfather’s innovative thinking trickled down is lost on them. Old money is uncreative, because they don’t want things to change — why disrupt the status quo when it's serving you well?   

As I look around at the ocean of Mulberry silk gowns and well-tailored tuxedos, it’s not lost on me that I’m the only person who has actually worked hard to be in this room — but to them, the fact that I had to work at all is what makes me undeserving. It’s a losing game, unless you stop trying to win big. Small, strategic wins are the path to success for people like me. 

Which brings me to my goal for the evening: Edward Carrington, heir apparent to the Carrington communications empire. His father, Louis Carrington, is a bit of a rarity amongst this crowd as well — a first-generation American by way of France, he built an entire media conglomerate from the ground up. He’s gritty, but rumor has it his children have been buffed and filed and smoothed over to no end. They’re shiny, and scandalous, and every media company (outside of the ones they own) loves to have a heyday with them and their seemingly endless shenanigans. Leonora Carrington Bares All After Another Wild Night! Gabriel Carrington and Ariana Call it Quits (Again)! This Sad Edward Carrington Meme is So Relatable! 

Edward is far and away the least dramatic of his siblings — known more for his signature hangdog expression than he is for scandalous activity. The youngest, he wouldn’t have been many’s first guess at a Carrington succession plan, but he’s the only one who actually seems interested in taking the reins. My research tells me he’s worked at the company since graduating from Oxford (of course), and has worked his way up to the C-suite. Obvious nepotism, but still — I can appreciate the fact that he at least has enough of a conscience to actually work at all, rather than simply coast through life on someone else’s coattails like most of the others I’ve encountered in these circles. 

Not that it matters. My job here isn’t to sympathize with a mark, or to respect them; it’s simply to get what I need from them and then move on, with as little friction as possible. Of course, getting to that stage requires capturing some attention in the short-term — which I’ll be sure to do in the emerald green Loro Piana gown that brings out the same tones in my eyes, and that contrasts nicely with my jet-black hair. The eyes are natural, the hair isn’t — but with a high-quality (read: cost me an arm and a leg and is part of why I even need to take on a new mark) dye job, no one would be the wiser. Looking in the mirror as I put my earrings in, I could’ve fooled myself. 

The first move is heading to the bar. Waiting in line is the perfect opportunity to mingle, to join a group that will increase your perceived value. Everything in this world works through association — which, in my case, translates to ingratiation.

As I’m laughing along to the jokes of two boring, middle-aged men who are barely bothering to hide the fact that they’re speaking to my breasts rather than my face, I spot him. Edward, one hand in pocket, staring into the middle distance broodily, his puppy dog eyes matching the color of the bourbon he’s swirling in his other hand. He’s Eeyore in a tux, let loose on Billionaires' Row. 

He’s with a group of others, but he doesn’t seem at all present. His mind is elsewhere, which is perfect. A distracted man is an unaware man, and an unaware man is the ideal mark. His ambition and status did initially give me pause, but I’m also bored enough to take some calculated risks. At a certain stage in any career, you reach a point where you feel stir-crazy, ready for a new challenge. I’ve reached that juncture: it’s time to uplevel a bit. Edward Carrington is perfect. 

“Like what you see?” A deep, gravelly voice with the slightest trace of an accent I can’t place comes from behind me, just over my shoulder. His tone is hushed, but I can hear the humor in it even before I turn around and see his face, eyebrows raised. 

I don’t recognize him, which is odd; I’ve got this entire guest list memorized, have been researching every attendee for months — poring over their histories and their connections and their divorces and so on. But the tall, golden-haired man standing before me is a stranger. It takes me mere seconds to understand why. Something in the way he holds himself, the lines at the corner of his eyes, the tension in his jaw: Spikes. He doesn’t belong here, either. Interesting, but not cause for alarm. I’ve got my story straight. I’m prepared for any situation. 

“If the rumor mill is correct, I think I may have more luck,” he continues, relaxing the smug expression on his face for a moment to take a sip of his champagne. 

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I say cooly, with a demure bat of my eyelashes. 

“Someone hasn’t done their research,” he says, the smug look returning. I want to wipe it off of his (very pretty) face. He raises his glass to me. “We haven’t met.” 

“We haven’t,” I say, raising my own glass to delicately tap his. “Mackenzie Albrecht.” I’m not sure what’s happening, or where he’s going with this.

“It’s funny,” he says, breaking eye contact to look at the crowd around us, his eyes scanning the room as people mill about before being seated. “I know everyone in this room. But I’ve never seen you before. Or heard your name for that matter.” 

A chill runs down my spine for a moment, but I don’t show it. “Speaking of: you still haven’t told me your name,” I say, taking another casual sip of champagne. 

“Henry,” he says, turning back to me. He takes me in through narrowed eyes, then sighs. “Listen, kid: you’re not going to have much luck with Edward Carrington.” 

I should be more surprised that he’s caught on to me that quickly. I should be concerned that he’ll somehow give me up. I should be worried about why he’s so sure I’ll strike out with Edward. But instead, the only thing I can focus on is that it’s completely annoying that he’s calling me kid, as he can’t be more than a few years older than me. 

“Again: I don’t know what you mean.” In spite of myself, I add: “And don’t call me ‘kid.’” 

He laughs. “You do know what I mean.” He leans in closer, his icy-blue eyes fixed on mine. “You and I are the same, Mackenzie.” 

He says my name like it’s an inside joke between us. Another shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s because it seems like I’ve been found out or because he’s standing so close I can see the endearing spattering of freckles that dance across his nose. 

“Actually, I take that back,” he says, taking a small step away from me as he drains the last of his glass. “I’m clearly better at researching marks than you are. If you need any help on the next one, just let me know.”

I should leave. I should walk away, right now. I should play dumb, act offended, politely step away. 

…But it’s clearly pointless to play dumb with him — and my curiosity (and, if I’m being entirely honest, my pride) gets the better of me. 

“I’ve been doing this a long time, kid,” I say quietly, through gritted teeth. “I know what I’m doing, but thanks.”

He smirks, then leans in to whisper something in my ear. “Edward Carrington has been engaged in a sordid affair with Tom Stark, CFO, for over a year.”

I choke on my champagne. I cough, my eyes watering. As I dab under them gently with my finger to avoid ruining my makeup, I glance back over to where Edward is still staring off into the ether. Only this time, I track his gaze…where it eventually lands on none other than Tom Stark, whose hand is resting on the small of his wife’s back while he makes small talk with some other execs. 

Shit. He’s right. How did I miss this? But, better yet: how did he know? 

Before I even have to ask, he sees the unspoken question in my eyes when they return to his. He shrugs. “Tom’s assistant hasn’t been given a raise in four years, while Tom’s pockets keep getting deeper. She’s bitter, and bitter people have loose lips.” 

I sigh. Months of research, planning, and prep flushed down the toilet, just like that — not to mention the emotional toll of the bikini wax I got yesterday in case things with Edward escalated quickly. I flag down a waiter and place my empty glass on his tray. 

“This has been great,” I say to Henry, “But I’m gonna get out of here.” 

“Wait,” he says, his hand grabbing my forearm lightly. “I’m not done here yet, and something tells me you and I could be beneficial to each other. Meet me at Jimmy’s Corner at eleven?” 

I look at his hand, still loosely wrapped around my forearm. He lets go as I do, holding his hands up. “No worries either way,” he says. “But it’s probably in both of our best interest if we’re at least casual allies — I don’t want to have to worry about you ruining my game at the next one of these.” 

I think about his offer for a second. It’d be a lot easier to accept if I felt like I had the upper hand here, if he hadn’t just outplayed me at my own game. I don’t want to be the Robin to his Batman. I made a miscalculation, sure — but I’m not a sidekick or a B-player in someone else’s game. 

“Dive bars aren’t really my style,” I say, reapplying my lipstick and then sliding it back into my clutch, closing the clasp with a satisfying click. “So I guess you’ll just have to wait and see what happens next time I run into you.” 

He grins. “Fair enough.”

I turn on my heel and walk away, secretly hoping that it won’t be long before I run into him again.