The invitation had arrived in one of those heavy cream envelopes that suggest civilization will collapse if one fails to RSVP by the engraved date. I nearly declined; society events had lost much of their charm after the Whitmore implosion. But Olivia, who understood me far too well, left a note on my calendar.
Attend. Be seen. Not for them. For you.
So I did.
The gala took place at the Plaza, all chandeliers and orchestral gloss, with a guest list composed of CEOs, politicians, philanthropists, and the sort of dynastic families whose surnames end up on wings of museums. Ordinarily I kept my appearances brief and my interviews nonexistent. That evening, I arrived alone and late enough to ensure the room noticed.
The dress Miranda had helped me choose turned every head it deserved to. White silk draped over my body like certainty. No veil, no bridal associations, no softness misread as invitation. Just a woman in white moving through a ballroom that had, for most of her life, not been designed with women like her in mind.
People smiled. People stared. People came to speak.