“Madame Jasmine Belsky. Monsieur Adrian Montgomery.”The names drifted through the air, and the moment we stepped into the main hall, the room tightened by a breath. A small band played from a corner, violin weaving into piano. Round tables lined the sides where the decor dared people to behave, while the middle stayed wide open for those who lived to parade silk, diamonds, and inherited power.Crystal fixtures glowed overhead, scattering light across jewelry, watches, and egos polished to a shine.A few faces clicked into place.Angelique Duval waved, already arranging her lips into that shape that meant long time no see though we’d never been close.“Jasmine. C’est magnifique, chérie.” Her voice floated toward me, soft and sugared.I smiled. “Angelique. You and Botox seem committed.”She laughed and tapped my chest, acting untouched.Then came the older couple who owned a hotel I’d redesigned in Nice. They patted my shoulder, praised the Cannes project for being visionary, complaine
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