Chapter 67

• The room shimmered with curated beauty, the kind that was deliberate, polished, almost theatrical in its perfection. It was all champagne haze and silk-lined chatter, where everyone floated from one polite exchange to the next, pretending not to see the tension sewn into the hems of designer gowns. These were the kinds of nights where the lighting was too flattering, the music was soft enough to mask discomfort, and everyone’s smiles were rehearsed just enough to keep the truth from breaking the surface.
• I had walked into rooms like this before. I had smiled beneath chandeliers, worn heels that ached by the second hour, and shook hands with people who whispered one thing and meant another. But tonight felt different. It wasn’t just the way people looked at me. It was the way the air itself carried something more volatile. There was a current moving just beneath the luxury, something waiting to unfold.
• I had just stepped away from an editor from Milan who had rushed across the floor to speak with me, all glossy-eyed and breathless, her compliments wrapped in curiosity. She had praised the quiet elegance of our showroom’s recent revival, the new lines, the renewed buzz, the way everything felt freshly lit from within. But even as she spoke, I could hear the real question underneath it all. They wanted to know how I was still standing. They wanted to know if the whispers about sabotage were true. They wanted to see if the weight I carried would eventually leave a crack.