The door of the Rolls Royce swung open, and the world detonated.
It wasn't a sound; it was a frequency. The flashbulbs didn't just illuminate the night; they annihilated it. A wall of white, strobing light crashed against Yanna's retinas, instantly blinding her. The roar of the press line—a chaotic, hungry ocean of shouted questions and shutter clicks—washed over the gravel driveway of the National Museum.
"Miss Navarro! Over here!"
"Camille! Is the merger happening?"
"Who is the girl? Who is she?"
Yanna flinched. It was a reflex, a biological recoil from the assault on her senses. She felt small. She felt translucent. She felt like a specimen jar that had just been dropped onto a concrete floor.
A hand gripped her elbow.
It wasn't a comforting touch. It was a clamp. Camille's fingers, hidden beneath the white silk gloves, dug into the sensitive nerve cluster of Yanna's arm. It was a signal. Stabilize.
