The grandeur of the Royal Victoria Hotel ballroom suddenly felt chaotic as a figure in a blindingly white suit, sporting a meticulously greased pompadour, scrambled onto the main stage. It was Amos Archer, clutching a small velvet box as if it were a holy relic.
From the front row, William Archer, the head of Willaire Corporation, let out a cry of paternal fervor that bordered on hysteria. His entire body was vibrating with the reflected glory of his son’s audacity. "That’s my boy!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "Son, I have never been more proud to call you an Archer!"
Amos paused to smooth his hair with a practiced, cinematic flourish. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the confused murmurs of the elite crowd, and flipped open the box to reveal a shimmering red
