POV — Catriona
The gala hall smelled of polished marble, perfume, and ambition. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across the polished floors, and every attendee was a living advertisement for power, influence, and carefully curated success. The air itself seemed charged, humming with expectation. I adjusted the lapel of my blazer, smoothing my skirt over the chair I’d just pulled out, and reminded myself: this wasn’t about appearances. It was about observation, strategy, and alignment.
Shawn Reid arrived shortly after me, as if the room had been waiting for him to anchor it. His presence shifted everything—people straightened, conversations softened, and even the faintest ripple of gossip paused at his proximity. He didn’t need to announce himself; the weight of his authority did
