The grand hall tent loomed like a canvas cathedral built for confession, its crystal chandeliers glittering overhead while holographic screens hovered like judgmental ghosts. Kenneth Holloway's dramatic, phoenix-worthy entrance was already fading into legend, the fog long gone—but the tension? Oh, that had settled in and unpacked its bags. The air crackled, thick with anticipation and scandal, tinged faintly with polished wood, overpriced flowers, and the unmistakable smell of reputations burning.
Spotlights zigzagged like they were just as nervous as the crowd, carving long, unforgiving shadows across faces that were usually allergic to discomfort. Billionaires froze mid-sip, champagne flutes abandoned like forgotten side quests. CEOs hissed into earpieces, issuing damage-control orders at warp speed, their designer suits suddenly feeling less like fashion statements and more like emotional riot gear.
