It made no sense. I didn’t belong in glittering ballrooms or among wealthy strangers. I barely owned a dress that fit. But beneath the disbelief, something else stirred.
Hope.
On the night of the gala, I slipped into the only black dress I hadn’t donated, smoothing wrinkles with trembling hands. My mother hugged me tightly as she took over bedtime chaos.
“Maybe this is the beginning of something,” she whispered.
The Carlton Grand looked like something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead. Soft violin music floated through the air. Every guest looked effortless, polished—like they belonged.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
