Marco Ramirez strutted around the hall with Evelyn at his side, glass in hand, offering a toast as guests fawned over him.
I sat quietly, digging into what I could find in the Ramirez family. They were indeed Charleston’s wealthiest household, but at the end of the day, they were nouveau riche.
The Ramirezes had only clawed their way to the top because of connections in New York, landing enough projects to solidify their fortune. Yet, for all their money, they’d never cracked Charleston’s true old-money circles.
Tonight’s guest list confirmed it—most here were either vassals of the Ramirez clan or hangers-on of the Carter family.
The Carters, though once a respected family, had long since declined.
This marriage was transactional: the Ramirezes wanted aristocratic legitimacy, and the Carters wanted financial rescue.
It was a story I’d seen play out countless times in history books and in real life. Marriage, after all, was as much a business deal as any merger.
Just then, a girl no older than sixteen or seventeen plopped into the chair beside me. She was pretty in a sweet way, cheeks still rounded with youth, her features bearing a striking resemblance to Evelyn.