It was Sunday night.
The limo stopped smoothly at the bottom of the museum steps.
For one brief second, everything outside the tinted windows looked almost unreal.
Camera flashes lit up the night endlessly.
Security moved through the crowd.
Reporters stood behind barricades with microphones already raised.
Celebrities climbed the staircase beneath towering lights while photographers shouted names from every direction.
The Met Gala.
Even after attending before, the atmosphere still felt overwhelming in its own strange way.
Beside me, Pierce adjusted the sleeve of his suit while staring out the window lazily like this was just another Saturday night to him.
Ford sat beside the opposite door, calm and unreadable as always.
And Hayes—
Hayes looked exactly the way he always looked b
