Author's pov
The reception was at one of those upscale clubs in central London--sleek, exclusive, drowning in chandeliers and velvet, with waiters who moved like they were on rails.
The room buzzed: glasses clinked, laughter rose and fell, and the soft murmur of jazz.
Cecilia barely noticed.
Normally, she'd own a night like this--chatting up coworkers, trading cards, working the room like it was her stage.
She was good at it, too. The polished charm, the strategic smiles, the way she remembered names and made people feel like they mattered--it was second nature.
Most nights, that social armor fit like a second skin. But tonight, it felt heavy. Off.
Tonight, she felt like a tourist who didn't speak the language.
She grabbed a glass of wine early, made the rounds, said the right thin
