The first time Paul and I were invited to dinner at the Schultz residence, we felt like kids playing dress-up and pretending to be our parents. Not my parents, obviously, but Paul’s—dignified, refined, exuding class from their tailored threads to their wrinkle-free foreheads. Only we were twenty-three, recent graduates of NYU, and scared out of our heads about embarrassing ourselves.

Three years before, when Paul and his father played golf with Rudolph Shultz, he’d been head of the New York office of Homeland Security. Mere months later, he was promoted, then promoted again. All the while, he kept tabs on Paul. Reached out with friendly phone calls and encouragement.

Paul’s parents were thrilled Schultz had taken their son under his wing. Especially when Schultz left New York for Washington DC in pursuit of a political career. With his history—active military service, Harvard Law degree—and his shining public persona, no one doubted he’d make it to the upper echelons of power.

And yet, despite his status as a shooting star and increasingly demanding calendar, Schultz never forgot Paul. Though their phone calls had slowly transitioned to sporadic emails, Schultz truly cared about Paul and by proxy, me. However nervous we were that night, Schultz put us both at ease within minutes of our arrival. He had a unique approachability, an intelligence and charisma so powerful it was blinding.

I remember that night like it was yesterday.

“London, Paul tells me you’re a fan of literature.” Warm blue eyes smile into mine.

“I am, Mr. Schultz,” I reply, my fingers sweating on the stem of a wine glass that probably cost more than last month’s rent. I hope he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice. My parents definitely didn’t prepare me for this. Rolling a joint, yes. Mingling with the wealthy and powerful? Big, fat no.

The handsome older man grins. “Please, call me Rudy. I already think of you as a daughter, after all. Come on, I want to show you something.” Without waiting for a reply, he calls across the room, “Paul, I’m stealing your wife!”

My husband, engrossed in conversation with the flawlessly beautiful Mrs. Schultz, laughs and nods. “Just bring her back.”

“Eventually.”

With a hand on my lower back, Rudy steers me from the sitting room at the front of the house and down the long, marble-floored hallway. We take a turn and come to a stop before double doors. His spicy, expensive cologne teases my nose as he reaches past me to open them.

“After you, my dear.”

I take several steps inside before awe freezes my muscles.

Behind me, Rudy chuckles. “I was hoping this would be your reaction.”

In the golden dusk, the massive room is ablaze with beauty. I’m sure there’s a name for it, something fancy like gallery or great room, but to my eyes it’s simply a wonderland. A wall of high, iron-bracketed windows faces the back of the property and beyond it is a riot of greenery—groomed gardens, fountains, fruit trees. But it’s what’s inside that holds me captive. Opposite the glass, the room extends into a beautiful library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves frame an elegant collection of chairs and couches.

My feet carry me toward the books. The air grows cooler and heavier against my skin, as though welcoming me. Or warning me—this is a place I could get lost in and never find my way out.

Rudy walks past me, the arm of his suit whispering against my shoulder. “This section, I think, will be of particular interest to you.” He glances over his shoulder. The sunset catches in his eyes; for an instant, they flare red. “Some of the greatest thinkers and essayists are here. Everyone from Hitchens to Emerson.”

I manage a little laugh. “This is amazing. I would have loved this during school.”

A tawny eyebrow quirks. “Now that you’ve graduated, you don’t have any more interest in learning?”

That, I would come to find out, was a signature Rudy statement. An insult delivered so graciously, that cut so swiftly, the pain registered on a delay. In just a few short words, he introduced a new emotion to my human experience. Shame.

“No, of course I still want to learn,” I stammer. “I only meant—”

“I’m only kidding, of course,” he interjects smoothly, a wide, disarming smile on his face. He seems so authentic my embarrassment slides away. Removing a small volume from a shelf, he walks back to me. “Can I offer a bit of advice, my dear?”

Off-kilter, I nod. “Of course.”

“Are you aware of Nietzsche’s concept of will to power? The instinct we all possess to dominate—be better than—our fellows?” He waits for my bemused nod. “I see this instinct in you, London. The passion for perfection. My advice is this—when the time comes for you to choose between instinct and self-preservation, choose the latter.”

I can’t contain my frown. “I don’t understand.”

From what I can recall, Nietzsche proposed that man’s highest challenge was to refine his so-called will to power in order to be free from all outside influences, thereby creating his own set of values. Was he telling me to ignore my instincts or to embrace them?

Rudy chuckles; I don’t know if he’s laughing at me or not. “Don’t fret, my dear. When the time comes, you’ll understand.”

A knock on the open library door turns our heads. A liveried servant bows stiffly from the waist. “Dinner is served, Mr. Schultz.”

“Thank you, Jerry.”

Rudy extends the small book to me. It’s an older publication of Beyond Good and Evil by Nietzsche, the spine well-worn and pages yellowed. I don’t know why he’s giving it to me, only that there’s a reason. Just like I know I don’t want to read it but will, simply because he expects me to.

“Thank you,” I say faintly.

He nods, no longer smiling. “I’ll expect you to have read it and be ready to discuss its contents before Sunday dinner next week.”

My head comes up. “What?”

He watches me. The sunset flares once more in his eyes.

I stammer, “Yes, of course.”