Elara
The crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the Grand Hyatt ballroom didn't just provide light. They refracted it into thousands of jagged, golden shards that seemed intent on piercing my retinas. Every prism was a boast, a shimmering display of excess that cast long, distorted shadows over the marble floor. Below them, a sea of people moved in a choreographed dance of vanity, their faces obscured by layers of expensive makeup and practiced smiles.
The air was thick, a suffocating blend of vintage champagne and heavy, floral perfumes that clung to the back of my throat. It was the scent of old money and new lies. To anyone else, this was the pinnacle of Jakarta high society. To me, it felt like standing in the middle of a very expensive wake.
I stood at the threshold, my
