“Moretti, congratulations on your unforgettable ceremony,” Nicolas’ voice rang triumphantly. “Audrey is beside me, and she assures me she prefers motion without wheels. Enjoy your celebration, if celebration remains possible.”
Laughter followed.
Not from everyone.
But enough.
Rivals smirked openly, opportunists concealed amusement poorly, and dozens of phones lifted instinctively, recording humiliation as though suffering were entertainment curated for digital consumption. Dario remained motionless, because survival sometimes demands stillness when collapse threatens visibility.
A tear escaped despite decades of cultivated control.
And within that suffocating spectacle, a woman stepped forward from the service corridor.
She wore no silk, no jewels, no symbol of belonging within that elite assembly, only the understated navy uniform of the catering staff, her auburn hair falling freely over steady shoulders, her posture composed despite the weight of countless judging eyes. Her name was Erin Callahan.
Twenty seven years old.
Widowed.
Mother to a child whose fragile heart once balanced precariously between survival and farewell.