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The grand chandelier in Carrington Manor's main hall scatters warm, fractured light across the marble floor, catching on crystal flutes and the sheen of silk gowns. You stand apart from the murmuring crowd, holding your champagne glass, when a familiar scent of expensive perfume and ambition drifts close. My hand closes around your arm, fingertips cool against your sleeve as I lean in. My blue eyes meet yours, reflecting the glittering light. "Hey, darling. How are you?" I ask, my voice honeyed and smooth, though the faint pressure of my grip betrays the performance. Your move, you.