POV: Ruby
The mahogany dining table in the central wing of the Manhattan penthouse was completely buried under a sea of textured silk swatches, heavy cardstock invitations, and digital layout blueprints. For the past three days, my world had narrowed down to the fine line between crushed velvet and satin finishes.
Eleanor Ray’s 60th birthday party wasn't just a familial milestone; it was a high-society summit. The Ray matriarch deserved nothing short of perfection, and I had refused to hand the reins over to an external coordinator. I needed the noise. I needed the endless debate over floral arrangements and multi-course menus to drown out the silence left in the wake of my father’s passing. It was a beautiful, exhausting armor.
"Mrs. Ray, if we look at the layout for the grand ball
