The conference has ended, but the grand ballroom has not yet emptied. It still breathes—a slow, collective exhale of crystal and silk, of voices that rise and fall like a tide, of music that drifts through the air like something half-remembered.
Chandeliers hang low and heavy, scattering their light across the room in fragments of gold and white, catching the edges of champagne flutes.
I stand among the gathering of powerful Alphas and influential families, a champagne glass resting in my hand. People approach one after another, offering greetings, exchanging polite words, paying their respects. I respond when necessary—nothing more. The glass remains untouched, more a symbol of participation than something I have any intention of drinking.
Beneath my composed expression, exhaustion settles heavily in my bones, patient and unrelenting.
