No cufflinks.
No invitation envelope.
No visible proof of belonging.
And in that room, proof mattered.
Kayla stepped closer, her red silk dress catching the light as if even the chandeliers had agreed to flatter her. Her hair had been blown out perfectly, dark waves falling over one shoulder. Her nails matched her shoes, which matched her clutch, which had been chosen specifically because it looked effortless and cost enough to make effort unnecessary.
Behind her, her friends Briana and Jade drifted nearer, already entertained.
The young man looked at Kayla.
Calm.
That bothered her.
Most people, when confronted by a Bellamy in a room owned by Bellamys, rushed to explain themselves. They smiled too much. Apologized too quickly. Produced proof. Name-dropped. Panicked. Tried to belong harder.
