POV: Iris Hartwell
The Harrington Gala happened every November without exception. The venue changed, this year it was the American Museum of Natural History, the grand rotunda swallowing Manhattan's wealthiest like it was designed for nothing else, but the guest list remained consistent. Same families. Same money. Same conversations recycled annually.
Iris Hartwell adjusted her mask in the bathroom mirror one final time before emerging into the crowd.
The dress was navy silk, expensive without screaming it. She'd chosen it deliberately, noticeable enough to satisfy obligation, restrained enough to avoid the aggressive sympathy that still followed her through rooms. Sixteen months of this calculation. Sixteen months of understanding that widows weren't tragic so much as complicated. They required gentleness, but not too much. Acknowledgment, but not prolonged attention.
She knew her role. She'd been playing it since the morning they found Daniel in that parking garage.
