The Celestial Grand's ballroom at eight PM looked like someone had kidnapped every billionaire in LA and forced them into formal wear at gunpoint.
Except no one had forced them. They'd begged for invitations.
Twenty-thousand square feet of marble floors, crystal chandeliers the size of small cars, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Black-tie didn't begin to describe it. This was elite black-tie—where jewelry wasn't measured in thousands but in bloodline heritage, where everyone's watch could fund a small country's GDP.
I stood in the shadows near the east wall, positioned between two marble columns that framed one of the massive windows. The city sprawled below like a circuit board, lights bleeding into smog and darkness. My position gave me clear sight lines across the entire ballroom while keeping me functionally invisible.
That was intentional.
Tonight wasn't about me.
Tonight was about watching Madison and Amandawork.
