The Global Garment Industry Conference was held at the Silverwood Hotel, right on Crestwick Waterfront.
Crystal chandeliers spilled blinding golden light across the ballroom, and titans of the fashion industry from every corner of the globe mingled through the crowd of glitzy, power-dressed attendees.
I wore a floor-length black gown cut from thirty-year-old rare traditional handwoven silk that had been stored away in the Sinclair family private archives. Under the lights, it rippled with a quiet, luxurious glow.
I had pulled my hair up into a simple, neat bun, secured only with an emerald hairpin. It was one of the few pieces of jewelry my grandmother had left me.
Landon stood half a step to my side, looking sharp and immaculate in a perfectly tailored black suit, the Sinclair Group's
