Eleanor:
The chandelier lights are a thousand small accusations, glittering above a sea of faces that bought their seats and but sold their consciences years ago. I walk out like I own the oxygen in the room—because I do. The gala is my stage, my sermon, my public absolution. They clap for me before I speak, the sound polite and hungry, and for a sliver of a second I let it feed me. Then I cut it off with a smile that’s all teeth and no mercy.
“Good evening,” I say, voice even, practiced, the cadence I’ve used for every charity speech since I was old enough to read teleprompter cues. “Thank you for supporting Windsor House. Your generosity rebuilds schools, funds scholarships, and keeps the skyline looking less like a battlefield and more like a city.” I tilt the phrase so the crowd sees
