The night wore on in a blur of clinking crystal and orchestrated laughter.
About an hour had passed since Amelia vanished into the crowd, and the gala had shifted into its second, more decadent phase. Trays of vintage champagne and stiff cocktails were moving nonstop toward the VIP tables, and I could see the atmosphere ripening.
I was enjoying the night in my own way—drifting through the peripheral circles of the room, engaging in the kind of low-stakes social combat that came naturally to me now.
I'd spent fifteen minutes discussing offshore interest rates with a hedge fund manager and another ten nodding politely at the wife of a major shareholder.
It was work, but it was work I did well.
That was when I felt a presence loom behind me—a heavy, expensive scent of woodsmoke and a far-too-hot cloud of bourbon.
"You know, they told me the power behind the throne was a beauty, but they didn't mention you were a goddess." A voice purred.
