“One week," Fiona said, fluffing the bow on her dress in the mirrored pillar. “We survived a week."
Jasper adjusted his cufflinks without looking at her. “We endured a week," he said. “Surviving is for other people."
The Cresthall Hotel ballroom glowed under pendant lights that pretended to be stars. Five pylons rose around the stage, each etched with a single word in gold: INVOICE. FORECAST. FLOWS. APPROVALS. DASHBOARD. Someone in Comms had decided their first-year whiteboard deserved forty-foot monuments.
“Five Pillars," Fiona murmured, pleased. “It looks… important."
“It looks like a courtroom," Jasper said.
People swirled—board members wearing success like a second skin; clients in tuxedos; staff in rented gowns trying to stand like this was normal. A string quartet sawed through
