Whispers buzzed through the ballroom like angry bees, thick with gossip and barely veiled amusement.
"Did you see her face?" one woman murmured behind her sequined clutch, eyes gleaming. "Like a tomato about to explode."
A man chuckled beside her. "I almost feel bad. But then again… she's been walking around like she already owned the family name."
"Oh, she had it coming," another voice added. "Always so high and mighty. Did you see how she treated the staff earlier? Like peasants."
"She thought landing Roman meant she'd arrived," someone else scoffed. "Turns out, she never even had a ticket."
Groups had formed in quiet corners, some sipping wine with wide eyes, others pretending to be discreet while clearly savoring the chaos.
Even those who didn't particularly like Roman now had something to admire — the man had style. Ice cold, unapologetic style.
A pair of older ladies, seasoned veterans of society's brutal social circles, exchanged knowing glances.
