Page 13 of Broken Blades

"And remember—these people are reading you constantly. Your posture, your handshake, how you hold your champagne glass." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're not just my daughter tonight. You're the future of the company."

The weight of it settled across my shoulders like the pashmina I'd left folded on my bed.

"I won't let you down."

"I know you won't."

We turned through iron gates that opened automatically, recognition sensors reading the vehicle. The estate sprawled before us—brick and limestone, lit from below with golden floodlights that turned the facade into something from a fairy tale.

Valets in black ties directed traffic. Women in furs and jewels stepped from town cars. Masks glittered under the entrance lights—feathers and crystals and Venetian lace.

Dad pulled to a stop, and a valet opened my door before I could reach for the handle.

I stepped out into the cold.

Behind me, my father's hand settled on the small of my back. "Ready?"

I looked up at the mansion, at the masks, at the performance waiting inside. "Ready."

The entrance hall swallowed us whole.

Velvet drapes the color of oxblood pooled from twenty-foot ceilings, their weight pulling the space into something darker, older, more theatrical than the estate's exterior promised. Chandeliers dripped crystal overhead, refracting candlelight into scattered diamonds across marble floors.

Masks turned toward us as we entered. Feathers. Lace. Gold leaf. Some covered only eyes—provocative, revealing. Others concealed entire faces behind porcelain and paint, transforming guests into characters I couldn't read.

A string quartet occupied the corner nearest the grand staircase, their music winding through conversation like smoke. Vivaldi, maybe. Something baroque and precise.

Dad's hand remained at the small of my back—firm, proprietary, guiding.

People watched. I felt their gazes track our movement across the entrance toward the main ballroom.

A woman in emerald silk leaned toward her companion, lips barely moving behind her mask. The murmur reached me anyway.

"That's Harrington's daughter."

My spine straightened automatically.

The mask I wore—midnight blue, delicate beading along the edges—suddenly felt like armor and exposure at once. It hid my face, yes. Concealed the flush climbing my neck. Protected me from direct scrutiny.

But it also marked me as someone worth looking at. Worth evaluating. Worth discussing in those half-whispered asides that pretended to be discreet.

We moved deeper into the ballroom.

Hockey players stood in clusters near the bar, shoulders too broad for their tailored tuxedos, movements still carrying that coiled athleticism even in formal wear. Their masks looked almost comical—predators playing at civility.

One caught my eye through his half-mask and lifted his champagne glass in acknowledgment.

I looked away.

Donors circulated with practiced ease, smiles visible beneath their disguises. Handshakes. Air kisses. The choreography of wealth performing for itself.

Dad's hand pressed slightly more firmly against my back. "Senator Morrison, three o'clock," he murmured. "Smile."

I smiled.

A server passed with champagne. Crystal caught the light, golden bubbles rising like tiny prayers.

The velvet drapes absorbed sound, making even laughter feel muted. Contained. Everything here existed inside glass—beautiful, fragile, perfectly controlled.