The chilled air of the terrace was a reprieve. Inside the ballroom, the performance demanded my return. I straightened my spine, smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from my dress, and fixed the professional smile back on my face. It felt more brittle than ever.
Pushing through the heavy door, the wall of sound and warmth hit me again. The string quartet had transitioned to a livelier number. Laughter rang out from a cluster near the champagne fountain. It was a perfect scene, one I would have meticulously orchestrated for a client. Tonight, I was trapped inside it.
“There you are!” A familiar, cloying voice cut through the hum. Felicity from PR appeared at my elbow, her eyes bright with the glee of someone who lives for other people’s drama. “We were just talking about you!”
“Oh?” I said,
