Inside, the orchestra was playing a slow, sweeping waltz.

The shadows of wealthy donors and corporate executives danced across the wet glass.

I reached the double doors that led into the secondary gallery.

I pushed them open and stepped into the warmth of the mansion.

The air smelled of expensive lilies, champagne, and damp wool.

I stopped by a tall marble pillar, trying to smooth my wet hair and adjust my dress.

My hands were still shaking.

I tucked the clutch tightly under my arm, feeling the solid shape of the cloner inside.

“Clara?”

A voice spoke from the crowd to my right.

I froze.

I turned slowly, keeping my face composed.

It was Arthur Vance, one of the junior partners from Vale Global who had remained loyal to the new regime.

“Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“You look wet,” he said, frowning as he looked at my damp shoulders. “Did you go out on the terrace in this weather?”

“I needed some fresh air,” I said, forcing a polite, professional smile. “The ballroom is quite warm.”