The Autumn Benefit was a masterpiece of my own making, but I was currently a ghost haunting the corridors of my own creation.
The grand ballroom of the Pierre was a sea of black ties and silk gowns, shimmering under chandeliers that cost more than my apartment building.
I stood near the velvet-draped entrance, my headset a heavy weight against my temple, my clipboard a shield I was using to hide the fact that my hands were shaking. Through the earpiece, I could hear the security teams and catering leads checking in—my world, my logistics—but out on the floor, the narrative was being written by someone else.
Isabella was effortless.
She looked like a vision in a floor-length gown of champagne lace that seemed to catch every drop of light in the room. She was peachy, radiant, and terrifyingly kind. Every time a donor approached, she was there, her hand tucked firmly into the crook of William's elbow, her smile a perfect blend of warmth and high-society breeding.
