The gala was held in the building’s central chamber, Elara's living, breathing lobby. The kinetic glass sculpture cast shimmering, watery light over the assembled dignitaries. It was a triumphant backdrop for a night that felt like a battlefield.
Miranda’s directive was clear: Sell the story. The trending photo of Kaelan’s protective touch demanded a counter-narrative. They had to be seen as a united, professional front, with just enough warmth to be human, but no spark to be scandalous.
It was a scripted dance, and every step was agony.
Elara wore a gown of liquid silver, its high neck and long sleeves an armor of elegance. Kaelan was in a tuxedo that seemed carved from the Icelandic night itself. They moved through the crowd together, a matched set. He introduced her to ministers with
