The auditorium shimmered with the kind of artificial brilliance that came only from money — chandeliers suspended like constellations, velvet chairs too rich for comfort, and the faint perfume of ambition perfuming the air. Laughter rang in soft, practiced bursts, the kind that accompanied expensive glasses of champagne and curated smiles.
Gigi adjusted her lanyard and glanced down at the gold print of her name. Giji Jasmine. She still wasn’t used to seeing it like that — the rebranding her PR manager had suggested after the exhibition’s success. It looked glamorous, detached, and perfectly foreign.
Across the room, camera flashes went off like tiny lightning strikes. Someone from a London gallery was taking a group photo beside an abstract installation made entirely of crushed glass. Th
