The pristine white lights shone on the diverse crowd, each person reflecting a different glow.
Nia Mitchell wrinkled her small nose. If anyone had interviewed her right then, surrounded by a throng of socialites, about how she felt...
She just wanted to scream at the sky; the mixed perfumes were too damn overpowering.
One person's perfume, another's perfume—all mixed together.
The combination was utterly vile!
"'I see a friend I know. I'll be back in a bit,' Nia Mitchell said, awkwardly raising her wine glass before turning to make her escape.
However, Phoebe Walker grabbed her wrist, her grip insistent and her manner overly familiar.
"'Don't go. Your friends are my friends. Why not invite her over so we can all chat together?'"
Nia Mitchell was exasperated. Phoebe Walker's tone today was enough to give anyone goosebumps.
"'No, thank you. She doesn't like strangers.'"
Despite her protests, Phoebe Walker didn't let go.
Seeing this, Shirley Grant approached.
