She arrived in a champagne-colored gown that looked like it had been poured onto her body, hair styled in perfect waves. Paige trailed behind her, wearing something sleek and black, already scanning the room for people who mattered.
My father walked in with me.
He insisted on it.
He wore a classic tux, but his expression was grim, jaw set in a way I’d never seen when I was younger. He looked like a man who’d finally found his spine and was afraid to lose it again.
I wore a simple navy dress. Nothing flashy. Nothing that said I wanted attention. I wanted credibility. I wanted to look like what I was: a woman bringing facts to a room built on reputation.
Marcus and Patricia were already inside, moving quietly through the crowd. Dela Fairchild stood near the back, notepad tucked into a clutch, eyes bright with professional focus. Helen Briggs sat at a table near the aisle, posture straight, face composed.
Onstage, the evening’s host—an upbeat attorney with a microphone—cracked jokes about summer humidity and billable hours. People laughed politely, the way they always do when they’re supposed to.
Victoria smiled like the night belonged to her.