I slumped in my chair at the fancy museum gala, watching the crowd of rich people circulate like sharks smelling blood in the water. Five minutes since Vivienne followed her mother out, and the whispers had already reached fever pitch. Fashion industry gossip moved faster than New York subway rats when pizza hit the tracks.
"Valentine heiress brings scholarship boy as date."
"Camille's furious."
"Did you see her face?"
Those same photographers who'd been calling Vivienne's name minutes ago had pivoted to capturing reactions from anyone who'd speak. A tall woman in Gucci looked at me with such naked pity I almost checked if my fly was down.
The chair next to me remained empty. Vivienne's speech was scheduled in fifteen minutes. Her collection launch speech that she'd practiced for three weeks straight. The one where her voice kept wavering on paragraph four until she'd locked herself in her study to get it right.
