The strobe lights were a violent intrusion, burning white-hot spots into my retinas that refused to fade even when I squeezed my eyes shut.
The roar of the ballroom—a mixture of genuine surprise, calculated applause, and the frantic clicking of high-shutter cameras—felt like it was happening underwater.
I stood paralyzed in the shadows, my hand still gripping the cold, hard edge of a marble pillar. The assistant in me wanted to move, to usher the press away, to shield William from the predatory lenses. But the woman in me was anchored to the floor, watching the man who had whispered "distracting" against my skin just hours ago pull another woman closer.
As the applause swelled, the choreography shifted.
The security detail, sensing the peak of the night, began to form a human wedge around the stage. They moved with a practiced, aggressive efficiency, pushing back the photographers who were desperate for just one more shot of "The Kiss."
