—Alec—
My convoy pulled up before the Auriela Grand Hall. I climbed down from the car and as usual—there were clicks of cameras in a distance.
“Alec! Mr. Rivera, just one photo, please!” someone shouted from the press barricade.
I didn’t slow my pace until a young photographer, no older than twenty, broke past security and rushed up, breathless and bold.
“Sir, please, just one pose. My editor says I need at least one clear shot of you tonight or I lose my job.”
He held up his camera like a peace offering, his eyes wide with desperation.
I adjusted the cuff of my tuxedo, already losing my patience. But something in his voice, maybe the way it cracked when he mentioned losing his job, made me reconsider.
I paused in my track. “Make it quick.”
He practically stumbled backward, his cam
