//CLARA//
The ballroom had transformed into a living painting of beautiful confusion, which meant my job here was officially fifty percent complete.
The old and the new were wandering between the chrome sculptures while sipping vintage champagne and praying nobody noticed they had zero clue why an eight-foot iron airplane was hovering over their heads.
Meanwhile, Casimir was completely in his element, gliding through the crowd like a six-foot-four void in a custom suit, effortlessly collecting signatures on territory contracts while the old guard was too busy staring at abstract art to actually read the fine print.
My host-zilla Master Plan was executing flawlessly.
Then I caught something that made my blood run cold.
Near the arched entrance to the east gallery, partially obscured by a towering glass pedestal displaying one of Oliver's tablet sculptures, stood a figure I recognized immediately.
Inspector Harding.
