The gallery was alive with muted tension as I stepped through the grand, iron-framed doors. The subtle hum of conversations, the soft clinking of champagne glasses, and the quiet rustle of designer fabrics created a symphony of understated elegance.
This was my night.
Months of planning, sleepless nights, and countless decisions had culminated in this moment. The exhibition wasn't just an event; it was a statement—a declaration of independence from the Alcove name and everything it entailed.
I'd poured my soul into this—no hiding behind my father's wealth, no relying on the Alcove name to carry me through. This was my own doing, my own creation, and tonight, the world would see it.
Every piece on these walls was carefully chosen to reflect a raw truth, unmasking the façades people wore and the power dynamics that shaped their lives.
