The silence in the grand ballroom was a physical thing, a weight that pressed down on five hundred sets of shoulders. In that silence, I took my first step forward, the soft leather of my shoes making no sound on the thick carpet. Then another. I moved with the unhurried deliberation of a head chef inspecting a service line, my gaze sweeping over the sea of frozen faces, finally landing, and staying, on Julian.
His shock had curdled into a mask of pure fury. His face, usually so animated and charming for the cameras, was a tight knot of disbelief and rage.
“What is the meaning of this?” he finally hissed, his voice, without the microphone’s amplification, sounding thin and reedy. “Amelia, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Security!”
A few burly men in ill-fitting suits start
