The Grand Aria Hotel had always been known for its elegance, but tonight, it was the very embodiment of opulence. Glittering chandeliers bathed the ballroom in a golden glow, while a live string quartet played a soft, lilting tune. Everywhere I turned, I saw familiar faces—CEOs in tailored suits, actresses dressed to kill, politicians schmoozing over crystal flutes of champagne. It was a battlefield of charm and power, where everyone measured one another with glances, smiles, and the occasional subtle dig.
And then there was me—on Keith's arm, very much pregnant, and very much glowing.
The moment we stepped in, the hum of conversation faltered. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Heads turned. Cameras clicked. Time seemed to slow just a bit.
I saw it in their faces—the shock, the curiosity, the mental gymnastics as they recalculated gossip stock value. Pregnant. Engaged. With Keith. The tabloids were going to froth at the mouth.
"Is that Wynter McIver?"
"She's pregnant?"
