The chandeliers glittered above her, dripping soft golden light like frozen honey from the heavens.
McKenna Annalise Dawson stood poised at the far end of the grand hall, her champagne glass resting lightly between her fingers, a perfect accessory to a carefully curated image. Around her, the Dawson Foundation's fiftieth anniversary gala unfolded like a polished symphony — refined laughter, gliding servers, the muted clink of crystal against crystal.
This was the world she'd been born into. Old money. Priceless art. Curated elegance.
And yet, at twenty-five, McKenna stood both inside it and apart from it.
Her parents, Edward and Vivienne Dawson, moved effortlessly through the crowd, their every gesture polished after decades of living as art world royalty. Their posture, their conversations, even their smiles — all a quiet, unspoken signal that the Dawson legacy was not simply wealth, but something elevated. They were curators of culture itself.
Her older sister, Genevieve Elaine Dawson — flawless, graceful Genevieve — stood beside them, the portrait of what the Dawsons valued: loyalty to the family's legacy, perfect decorum, and a future safely entrenched in the foundation's inner circle.
McKenna sipped her champagne. She didn't share their values, and they had never let her forget it.
She had always been the anomaly: the girl who loved beauty and personal care as much as her family loved ancient paintings. The rebel who traded academic lectures for creative start-ups. The one who left the Dawson Foundation at twenty-three and built Sovelle Atelier — her own world of curated luxury lifestyle, beauty, and modern living, tinged with an artful eye she couldn't fully escape.
Tonight was a test.
She knew it, and they knew it.
They watched her — not openly, but always with that faint, polite scrutiny that lived between approval and quiet disapproval. She was too ambitious, too independent. And yet, her success had grown undeniable.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her focus.
"McKenna."
The voice was smooth. Unmistakable.
Daniel Albrecht Moreau. Swiss-French. Impeccably tailored as always, with an easy, practiced smile that rarely reached his calculating eyes.
She turned toward him, careful not to show the tension that rippled through her chest. Daniel was dangerous in the way snakes were dangerous — beautiful, quiet, and lethal if underestimated.
"Daniel," she returned, voice even, pleasant enough for public civility.
"You're radiant this evening." His gaze swept over her, lingering for half a second too long. "Sovelle Atelier seems to agree with you."
McKenna smiled, cool and measured. "Success has a way of brightening one's complexion."
"Indeed." He swirled the wine in his glass. "Still, I hear whispers. Expanding into Zurich, are you? Quite the leap."
Her pulse quickened, but she kept her voice steady. "You've been keeping up, I see."
"It's my job to stay informed," he replied, eyes glinting. "International expansion. High stakes. One wonders if you're biting off more than you can chew."
"If one lacked vision, perhaps."
Daniel chuckled softly, his smile still in place. "Careful, chère. The art world does not always forgive audacity."
"Fortunately," McKenna said, lowering her glass, "I'm not asking for its forgiveness."
Before Daniel could respond, Genevieve materialized beside her with perfect timing, offering a brief but warm smile to both of them.
"Daniel. Always a pleasure. Excuse us."
With that, Genevieve subtly looped her arm through McKenna's, guiding her toward the quieter end of the gallery.
"Thanks," McKenna muttered once they were out of earshot.
"Don't mention it," Genevieve whispered. "I saw that little gleam in his eye."
They shared a glance — the unspoken bond that had kept them steady, despite their very different paths.
But even as Genevieve carried on, McKenna's attention shifted. Across the room, past the swaying conversations and polished servers, a man stood partially in shadow. Watching her.
Tall. Dark suit. Composed. Not familiar.
Their eyes met — his gaze unwavering, respectful, but intent. He raised his glass slightly. Not in invitation, but acknowledgment.
McKenna blinked, and he was gone, melting back into the crowd.
The first move had been made.