Eleanor:
The ballroom is a sea of silk, champagne, and pretense. Guests drift like moths to crystal chandeliers, all eager to taste the illusion of generosity that Windsor House dishes out like hors d’oeuvres. I slip back in, heels clicking over polished marble, every step a metronome of control. Every glance is measured. Every smile calibrated.
I survey the room like a general scanning a battlefield. Each laugh, each bow, each whispered compliment is a data point. Every high-society flirt and handshake is ammunition, and I am armed to the teeth. A few of the more aggressive patrons—mostly men trying to position themselves for favors—attempt to corner me with conversation, but I parry with elegant precision. A tilt of my chin, a small smirk, the right word in the right inflection, and th
