He straightened his jacket again, smiled at his reflection, and turned away from the mirror as if the man staring back had never needed anyone.
By the time Miles stepped out of the black luxury sedan in front of the Grand Meridian Hall, the red carpet was already alive with flashbulbs.
The building itself looked like a monument—white stone, towering columns, gold light pouring through massive arched windows. The kind of place that existed purely to remind you that wealth can be architectural.
Standing beside him was Brielle Knox.
Brielle had been carefully chosen—not for love, not for compatibility, but for optics.
A former model with sharp cheekbones, practiced laughter, and a reputation for being photographed in the right rooms. Her gown was silver and sculpted, shimmering as if it had been sewn out of moonlight. She moved like cameras were oxygen.
She leaned close, whispering with amusement, “Relax, Miles. Tonight belongs to us.”
Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions.
“Miles! Over here!”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Is Meridian Crest attending?”
One voice cut clearly through the noise.
