The grandeur of the Alfonzo estate's downstairs hall had never felt as overwhelming as it did now.
Tall arched windows allowed the morning sunlight to stream in, casting a golden glow on the polished marble floors.
The chandeliers, their crystals glittering, swayed gently with the breeze filtering through the slightly open French doors that led to the gardens.
It was a space meant for opulence and celebration, but for me, it was the setting of an elaborate lie I'd woven to protect myself.
I stood in the center of it all, my arms crossed, trying to visualize how a party—a real party—might come together.
My gaze shifted to Greta, the elderly head maid who had graciously agreed to assist me.
She moved with practiced ease, directing other staff with simple gestures and sharp words that left no room for interpretation.
