The chandeliers blazed above the grand ballroom.
Hundreds of guests in black tie and couture stood in a wide circle, champagne glasses in hand, watching the scene unfold in the center of the marble floor.
A woman in a deep blue satin gown sat perfectly still in a black wheelchair. Her posture was straight. Her hands rested calmly on the armrests.
A blonde woman in a shimmering silver sequin dress stepped forward from the crowd, a glass of champagne in her hand and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She stopped directly in front of the wheelchair.
She looked down with open contempt.
The blonde’s lips moved, but no one could hear the words. Only the cruel curve of her smile was visible.
Then the camera dropped.
A close-up of the blue satin across the seated woman’s chest.
There, right above her heart, was a dark, ragged hole. The fabric around it was burned and frayed. Tiny gold threads still clung to the edges like old scars.
The woman in the wheelchair did not look down. She did not react.
Instead, she slowly raised her right hand and touched the small black headset microphone resting against her cheek. Her fingers adjusted it once.
Her eyes lifted and locked onto the blonde.
The smile on the blonde’s face faltered.
Across the room, an older man in a tuxedo standing at the bar froze, his hand tightening around a crystal glass. His face went pale.
The woman in the wheelchair spoke into the headset. Her voice was low, steady, and ice-cold.
The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.