Queen paused mid-stride, her lips tightening around a sigh that didn't make it out. Was everyone mooning over Chayara now? The quiet mouse?
She reached the bar and knocked back a shot like it owed her money. The burn in her throat did nothing to quell the burn in her chest. She glanced into the mirror set on the bar's side column, just a quick glance to remind herself that she looked damn good. The mirror confirmed it: radiant, regal, powerful. Her gold dress shimmered like it had a direct link to heaven's lighting department. Her hair framed her face like a Vogue cover shoot. She looked like money. She was money.
And yet, everyone including her husband was staring at the woman in a dull black dress as if Coco Chanel herself had risen from the grave to sew it on her. Was the slit that magical? Was there a hidden spotlight following Chay around?
Enough. Queen swiped a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter like she was claiming a weapon and marched toward Chayara.
