The grand ballroom of the Grand Victoria Hotel was a claustrophobic sea of velvet, silk, and unadulterated snobbery. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls above a crowd of city elites, their laughter ringing with the hollow, brittle sound of money without substance.
I stood near the entrance, holding a glass of cheap, lukewarm sparkling water. I was wearing a suit that cost less than the cufflinks of the man standing to my left. It was a baggy, charcoal-gray polyester nightmare, the shoulders sloping awkwardly, the pants slightly too short.
Elara stood beside me, resplendent in a custom-made, midnight-blue evening gown that whispered of quiet, infinite wealth. She looked like a queen forced to chaperone a pauper.
"Are you sure about this, Lucas?" she whispered, her voice barel
