The Calloway estate looked like something out of a Gothic novel, all stone towers and elaborate gardens that probably cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. As my car wound up the circular drive, I caught glimpses of tennis courts, a stable, and what looked like a private helicopter pad. The message was clear: this wasn’t just wealth, it was generational power.
Alexander had invited me to dinner exactly twelve hours after our debate hall showdown, his text arriving with typical Calloway directness: Family dinner tomorrow. 7 PM. Don’t dress down.
The invitation felt like a challenge wrapped in courtesy, which was probably exactly what it was supposed to be.
I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing what to wear, finally settling on a navy dress that Roni had decla
