|Gryphon's POV|
The chandelier above me glints with every camera flash, every spotlight, every goddamn flicker of artificial grandeur that this city is so enamored with. The ballroom smells like old money and newer lies, and I've shaken more hands today than I have in months.
Men in Tom Ford suits, women in Balmain, champagne flutes that cost more than what some people earn in a year—it's all exactly the way it's supposed to be. Strategic. Glamorous. Hollow.
I should be thriving.
Instead, I'm just f*****g tired.
I smile where I'm expected to, nod when it counts, answer questions about offshore acquisitions and French labor compliance like I don't want to set the whole stage on fire just for the silence. I've spoken at two panels, had lunch with a man who owns half of Saint-Germain, s
