The press room at the Cross Empire tower was a coliseum.
It was a cavernous space designed to intimidate, with floor-to-ceiling screens, tiered seating for three hundred journalists, and a podium that looked more like a pulpit than a lectern. Usually, it was used to announce mergers, acquisitions, and quarterly earnings.
Today, it was being used to announce a life.
It was 10 AM on Friday. Two days before the "wedding."
The room was packed. Every major network, every newspaper, every gossip blog was represented. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, tension, and the predatory anticipation of a scandal about to be dissected live on air.
Liam Cross stood in the wings, adjusting his tie. He wore a suit of midnight blue—a subtle nod to Aurora’s "Reconciliation" gown. He looked calm.
