//CLARA//
The flash powder ignited with a deafening pop, blinding white light searing straight through my retinas.
Thick, sulfurous smoke drifted across the gilded foyer of the grand ballroom, smelling like a firework exploded in an ash bucket. I stood frozen in the middle of it all, my jaw locked, my brain dropping into complete and total radio silence.
A dozen reporters pressed forward, their shouting a wall of noise. Hungry, sharp-eyed men in rumpled suits scribbled furiously on paper pads, while photographers nearly tripped over their heavy tripods to capture the spectacle.
I spent years in the high-fashion trenches of modern Manhattan. I have survived back-alley paparazzi traps, predatory tabloid writers, and live-streamed wardrobe malfunctions with a smooth, effortless smile.
My media-trained brain usually jumps straight into damage-control mode. Control the narrative. Neutralize the leak. Spin the angle.
