The photographer asked us to hold still.

Grant’s hand rested at the small of my back, practiced, proprietary. The flash bloomed white and brief, catching us mid-laugh, his press-ready smile, my eyes angled just enough to look soft. I’d learned how to be photogenic without appearing vain. That, I decided early, was an art men like Grant admired almost as much as compliance.

The ballroom shimmered in tonic notes of champagne and candlelight. Mirrors winked from paneled walls, multiplying bouquets and faces until the room felt twice as generous as it was. A string quartet played something timeless. Waiters drifted through in black jackets with silver trays held level. The chandelier above us sent flakes of gold down onto the marble, and the marble obligingly returned them as a gloss that flattened every flaw.

A vibration pulsed once through the pocket of Grant’s tuxedo. His hand slid to my waist and pressed a fraction harder, as if anchoring the picture in place. He didn’t check it. I let my gaze drift past his shoulder. Across the room, Virginia Hollings, a board insider, met my eyes as her screen went dark under her thumb. She slid the phone away and smiled back into the party like nothing had happened.

“You make it look easy, Eleanor,” he murmured when the cameras turned away. He leaned in, lips brushing my temple, his voice dropping to that low register that always sounded private. I let myself lean into him for a beat. Warmth, habit, the old gravity.

He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, the way he does when there is an audience. The light caught it perfectly, expensive honey, layered and glossy from a salon that charged discretion by the hour. Grant liked that it looked effortless. He never noticed effort unless it was his.