Graham is one of those men who looks sexier in a cashmere sweater and jeans because everyone’s used to seeing him in some variation of a suit or workout clothes. It’s not that he’s sexier when he’s more casual, but the feeling I get knowing I’m one of very few people who get to see this side of him—that exclusivity—that’s what I find very sexy. I also feel it when I call him at work, telling his secretary to please pull him out of that meeting, only to say that a special outfit he’s going to want to take off me arrived from NET-A-PORTER, and I’ll have to try it on for him later.

Based on the paparazzi shots of the Kardashian sisters that littered every magazine I could steal growing up, I always thought that being rich meant ostentatious silver Gs on your belt buckle, dresses with “Balenciaga” running up and down the sleeves, sandals screaming “CHRISTIAN DIOR” on the leather toe strap. It wasn’t until I moved to New York that I realized there are multiple layers of rich, in the same way there are multiple layers of poor. Two-white-collar-parents-in-debt-from-their-McMansion poor was different from single-mom-who-buys-groceries-at-the-dollar-store poor, which was different from homeschooled-on-a-farm-in-a-religious-cult poor.

What I saw in magazines was New Money Rich. The kind of rich when you’ve recently—often quickly and hastily—lifted your status in the world and want everyone to know it. That’s when you plaster “GIVENCHY” on your chest but still pronounce it Give-in-chee not Zhee-vaah-shee. That’s when you buy the Aston Martin with the doors that open like a spaceship just to keep it in your driveway because you can’t afford the insurance. When your house has more rooms than you can afford to furnish.

But that’s not Walker rich. Walker rich is two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sweaters so plain you could have bought them at the Gap. It’s five-hundred-dollar white sneakers you lightly scrub with a toothbrush after each wear. It’s four-hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar raincoats that only have a label on the inside tag.

That’s what I’m marrying into. They wouldn’t stand out in a crowd for anything other than looking perfectly pressed and put together, but their clean and uncomplicated outfits probably cost more than your average mortgage. That’s the point, I’ve learned time and time again. Blending in so as not to be a target. But blending in is a much more arduous task than standing out. It takes considerably more effort to look like you belong than to intentionally go out of your way not to.

The plane ride was so steady my dress only swayed on the hook in the closet as we took off and landed. In between, we floated through the clouds, the blue sky around us and the world below us.