The air in the ballroom of the St. Regis was thick with the scent of lilies and the sharp, metallic tang of expensive champagne.
This was the Torres Empire in its Sunday best—a sea of black tuxedos and silk gowns that shimmered under the weight of crystal chandeliers.
To anyone else, it was the social event of the season.
To me, it was a high-stakes logistics puzzle that I had been solving for the last three weeks.
I stood near the edge of the VIP lounge, my own gown—a sleek, floor-length midnight navy that felt like a second skin—allowing me to blend into the shadows when I needed to, and command attention when I didn't.
My tablet was tucked away, but my brain was still running the numbers.
Julian was already deep into his "good uncle" routine.
