The lights are already hot when she steps into them.
Flashes erupt before her name is even spoken, a staccato storm of white that fractures the stage into frozen frames. Evelyn does not blink.
She walks to the podium with measured precision, heel to toe, the sound of her steps softened by the thick carpet but not erased. The backdrop behind her is clean—foundation insignia centered, neutral tones, no excess. The message is visual before it is verbal.
Control.
Marcus takes his place slightly behind and to her right. Not close enough to suggest possession. Not far enough to suggest distance. His hands are clasped loosely in front of him, expression neutral, watchful.
The murmuring press pool swells.
Evelyn sets both palms lightly on the podium and waits.
She does not raise a hand for
