Emily
I’d spent the better part of the afternoon overseeing florals, verifying placements, coordinating dietary preferences with the kitchen, and politely declining every attempt Logan made to send someone else to handle it.
I needed control. The precision. The armor that came with knowing every inch of this evening had been shaped by my hands.
Now, under the soft glow of antique chandeliers, it looked effortless. Like a vision conjured from thin air. A perfect illusion.
Nobles mingled across the room, swirling glasses of dark wine, their laughter low and practiced.
The Pack’s political elite flanked both ends of the long table, and in the center, I sat beside Logan, my posture perfect, my expression composed.
I smiled when I was supposed to. Laughed at a joke I barely registered.
