The ballroom had been rebuilt twice since afternoon, Monica said, once for the seating and once for the cameras. Arianne believed her. Every angle in the room had been considered by someone whose job was considering angles, down to the exact width of the aisle Franz would walk to reach the podium.
She'd stood in rooms like this before, never in this position. At Rochefort Group events, every conversation eventually bent toward her. Tonight it bent toward him.
The press pen ran the length of the far wall, three deep, credentials on lanyards from outlets she recognized and a dozen she didn't, foreign markets Franz's face apparently reached without her having tracked it. A publicist near the barricade was fielding a livestream request from someone with two million followers and a ring light. Outside, past the glass, a crowd had gathered that had nothing to do with Meridian Artists at all. They were there for him.
