The crisp December air of 1997 didn't stand a chance against the radiant heat of the Vanderbilt-Clairmont ballroom. It was the night of the "Crystal Frost" gala, the undisputed peak of the Manhattan social calendar.
At midnight, the host, Alistair Clairmont, raised a crystal coupe. "To a year of unprecedented growth," he toasted, his voice echoing under the gold-leaf ceiling. "And to a future that looks even brighter."
Julianne smiled, though her eyes were on the center of the room. Princess Diana had passed only months ago, and a certain somber elegance still clung to the season’s fashion—lots of black lace and understated pearls. Yet, as the live orchestra transitioned from Gershwin to a sophisticated arrangement of "Candle in the Wind," the mood shifted from commerce to legacy.
Julianne St. James adjusted her vintage Dior—a silhouette that whispered "old money" while her brand-new Motorola StarTAC, tucked discreetly in her silk clutch, screamed "new era." The room was a sea of velvet tuxedos and champagne flutes, smelling of expensive cigars and Chanel No. 5.
"The Dow is at 8,000, Julianne," Arthur Sterling boomed, leaning against a marble pillar. He was a man who looked like he’d been born in a three-piece suit. "If this keeps up, we’ll be buying the Hamptons by Easter."