Scarlett’s POV
The car was quiet.
Too quiet.
The hum of the engine, the soft leather beneath my fingertips, the distant sound of the city night rushing by, it all felt muted, like I was floating between two versions of myself and hadn’t fully landed yet.
I sat poised, spine straight, hands folded neatly in my lap as the car wove through the evening traffic, inching toward the Eastwood Grand Hall where the city’s elite would be gathered beneath chandeliers and flashing lights. Tonight wasn’t just a gala, it was the gala. A celebration of power disguised as charity. And I was a name on everyone’s lips.
But no one knew what I’d wear.
No one knew who I’d come with.
And, God, wasn’t that delicious?
I could feel eyes on me, even in the car. I could feel the questions swirling like perfum
