AYLA
Lake Como City Hall.
The moment we arrived, the party was well halfway gone.
I made no move to hide away or slip in unnoticed.
The old Ayla would do that. Not me.
Heels clicking on marble floor, I waded through silver trays carrying champagne flutes that glinted beneath perfect interior lights.
The thing with making money was how it made you notice the simple details you'd once ignore.
Money polished people's taste. It made people settle for minimalist designs, but always the classics.
A mini orchestra played in the corner of the ballroom—a low, easy beat allowing monotonous conversation to be heard above it.
I wore the confidence I'd garnered in one year at the centre of my chest.
As much as I didn't cower, I wasn't in the mood for conversation. That meant I didn't want to meet any familiar faces.
I had almost reached the donation table when my plan to get in and out before people caught wind of my presence was shattered.
"Ayla…"
