The moment Willow stepped out of the car, the world blinked white with camera flashes.
A tide of light washed over the steps, the marble entrance gleaming like it had been carved out of a dream and polished with ego. Music thrummed from inside — low, expensive, engineered to make people feel wealthy even before they crossed the threshold.
Victor's hand hovered near her back — not touching, just guiding — and she stepped into the current of warm light.
She inhaled once, clipped and controlled.
Tonight, you're fine, she told herself.
And maybe, in the beginning, she almost was.
The ballroom stretched upward in a cathedral arc, chandeliers dripping with glass like melting constellations. Every surface reflected something — gold, bodies, ambition. The crowd glimmered with sequins, silk, tailored suits. It was a room full of people who pretended not to care while desperately hoping everyone was watching.
Victor leaned toward her with a small smirk.
