The Grand Atrium of the Zenith Pavilion smelled of chilled ozone, expensive gin, and polished wealth. The executive networking event was a flawlessly orchestrated collision of Fortune 500 CEOs, political opportunists, and aggressive venture capitalists, all moving continuously beneath vaulted glass ceilings that reflected the city's glittering, rain-slicked skyline.
Galathea Brooks stood near a towering, abstract ice sculpture, her weight shifted subtly onto one heel as she endured a relentlessly dry conversation with two museum directors regarding third-quarter acquisition logistics. She nodded at the appropriate intervals, her expression a masterclass mask of polite professional interest, but her attention was deeply fractured. Her pulse maintained a low, steady rhythm, yet her mind mapped the perimeter of the room.
