It was a charity gala hosted by the Alcoves.
The grand ballroom shimmered like a diamond-studded dream, the chandeliers overhead casting a soft glow that seemed to amplify the polished laughter and murmurs of the guests.
The room was a vision of high society—a sea of tuxedos, ball gowns, and the occasional oversized bow tie that was probably designed by someone's five-year-old.
The orchestra played a soft waltz in the corner, and waiters glided past with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres, looking far too elegant to be holding canapés that were mostly just crackers and cheese.
I stood at the edge of the ballroom, in the most stunning black gown I'd ever worn, and tried to appear as though I wasn't in the middle of an existential crisis.
