In another part of town, the ballroom shimmered beneath the golden lights, a sea of black suits and glittering gowns. Laughter rippled through the air like a soft current, polished and practiced, the kind that lived in events like this.
Val smiled as another glass clinked near her ear. She'd been shaking hands for the past twenty minutes, each smile more mechanical than the last.
"Ah, if it isn't the young Miss Moreau, it's so good to see you again," a tall man greeted, extending his hand.
Mr. Collins looked to be in his early sixties, the kind of man who carried age like it was something earned — silver hair neatly brushed back, posture still firm, his smile warm but measured.
Beside him stood his wife, graceful even in her age, dressed in an emerald silk gown that caught the light every time she moved. There was something steady in the way she looked at him, the quiet ease of a couple who'd weathered everything together.
