POV: Claire Desmond The heavy, gilded doors of The Plaza swung shut behind me, muffling the chaotic roar of the ballroom. Inside, the air was a graveyard of rotting ambitions and the shattered remains of Jake Floyd’s pride. Outside, the world was brutally honest. The Manhattan night hit me like a physical weight—crisp, sharp, and smelling of damp pavement and distant exhaust. Usually, I’d recoil at the biting chill of the October wind, but tonight, the cold tasted like oxygen. I drew a long, jagged breath, filling lungs that had been compressed by terror for far too long. My legs were shaking. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, trembling weakness in my joints. My heels clicked against the sidewalk in a frantic, uneven staccato as I moved away from the main entrance. Un
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