Silver followed Lorenzo back into the grand ballroom of the Grand Palais. The chandeliers still glittered overhead, casting golden light across the glossy marble floors. Music played softly now—elegant, understated—as the final hours of the launch party dwindled into polite conversations, laughter, and glasses of expensive champagne clinking together.
She slipped her heels back on before stepping in, and instantly regretted it.
Her feet were screaming.
But she straightened her back and held her head high, lips painted in a soft smile as she moved through the room beside Lorenzo. He stayed close, not crowding her, just enough to offer silent support.
"Silver," a couple called out. She smiled, waved, exchanged a few pleasantries.
Her voice was smooth, her posture regal—but her toes were protesting with every step.
She laughed inwardly. A Goddess on the runway, a limping mortal behind the scenes.
