The lights inside had dimmed slightly since they'd stepped out. Just enough to give the impression of warmth, as if opulence needed to be more inviting to feel believable.
Don and Miss Claire passed through the tall archway with an ease that didn't belong to newcomers. She led, he followed—a few steps behind, never far, always just close enough to keep pace without shadowing.
The moment they returned to the main reception areas, it became obvious the crowd had tripled.
Guests lingered in clusters, or moved in pairs, all dressed like they'd crawled from magazine pages or auction catalogues. Every third face was probably on a board of directors somewhere. Every fifth had likely stepped over someone to get there.
Don didn't recognize a single one.
They passed a man with salt-white hair and an accent so clipped it could've shaved glass, discussing foreign logistics with a woman who nodded without blinking.
