The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the suffocating stench of forced politeness.
From the shadowed mezzanine overlooking the floor, I watched the elite of the city mingle below. But my eyes were locked onto only two people.
Leo stood near the center ice sculpture, holding a flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. He looked impossibly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, laughing easily at a joke made by the Mayor. Beside him, clinging to his arm like a decorative vine, was Sophia. She was wearing a blindingly white gown that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress, and around her neck rested the flawless diamond choker that had belonged to our grandmother.
They looked perfect. They looked untouchable.
"They seem to be enjoying your funeral
