Isabella slipped into the private room prepared for nominees and sponsors, her assistant chatting excitedly beside her. The room sparkled—gold chandeliers, polished glass tables, champagne flutes clinking. People laughed too loudly. Posed too hard. Faked too well.
Her smile wavered. What is this feeling?
She was used to fake. She was fake. A product of contour, contracts, and couture. But something tonight itched under her skin. Like the glitter had gotten in her eyes and wouldn't come out. Everything felt... wrong.
"Excuse me," she muttered to her assistant, already halfway to the balcony doors.
The moment she stepped out, the world softened. Quieter. Colder. She leaned on the railing, took in a shaky breath. Her diamond earrings clinked against her shoulder. "What the hell is going on with me?"
"Hey, Isa."
She nearly jumped.
