The Grand Ballroom at the St. Regis was a masterpiece of old-world opulence. Gilded ceilings soared two stories high, and massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over an army of waiters in white jackets. A full orchestra was playing softly on a raised dais, their beautiful music echoing in the vast, empty space.
Claudia Lancaster stood at the entrance. She wore a beautiful dark green dress and the famous Lancaster diamonds. She looked like a queen, her posture perfect, her smile calm and confident. She was a predator in her own territory, waiting for her subjects to arrive and pay their respects.
The clock on the wall struck eight o'clock. The first guests, a few distant Lancaster cousins, had already arrived and were standing around awkwardly, like nervous statues in the enormous room. The main guests, the ones who mattered, were fashionably late. Claudia was not concerned.
Then eight-fifteen came and went. The orchestra finished a waltz and, after a hesitant pause, began a new one. Waiters with trays of champagne stood perfectly still, their expressions beginning to show hints of boredom.
At eight-thirty, Claudia's calm smile started to look tight. The huge ballroom stayed empty. The only sounds were the soft music, which now felt too loud, and the uncomfortable shuffling of her relatives.
"Where is everyone?" she hissed at her assistant. The young man was staring at his phone, his face pale with sweat.
"I… I don't understand, Your Grace," he stammered. "They all said they were coming. I have confirmed RSVPs from the mayor's office, the French ambassador, the Vanderbilts… all of them."
"An RSVP means nothing if they do not walk through that door," she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Find out where they are. Now."
Just then, a hotel manager ran up to the assistant, his eyes wide with panic. "You need to see this," he whispered, showing him his phone. It was a live video from a society blogger's Instagram.


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