The gala was not on my calendar until this morning.
It was Marcus' event. Officially a philanthropic technology expansion initiative. Unofficially a reassurance campaign.
After this week's headlines, reassurance is currency.
Everything about the room says stability. Everything underneath it feels fragile.
Ethan didn't want to come. "You don't need to perform tonight," he told me while adjusting his cufflinks.
"I'm not performing," I said. "I'm observing." So we came.
Marcus stands near the center of the ballroom, composed in that deliberate way men become when they're trying not to appear rattled. His suit is sharp. His smile is controlled. His handshake was firm.
Selene is on his arm. She looks flawless but not affectionate.
That's the first thing I notice. She's angled slightly away from him. Not enough for gossip. Just enough for distance.
Her uncle stands across the room, speaking to two board-level investors from his own firm. He does not look toward her.
