We were just settling into the private dining room – a space so grand it felt like a museum exhibit – when the real show began.
A small parade swept in. Staffs in uniform, arms laden with boxes wrapped in gold, red and ivory tied in satin-ribbons that stacked higher than seemed practical. The polished floor almost mirrored them as they moved like a well-rehearsed parade. Behind them, a woman walked with unshakable grace.
Elise Walton.
I knew her silhouette before she even stepped fully into the light—her poise, her elegance, her way of making every space bend toward her. But it wasn't intimidation that filled the room tonight. It was warmth.
Elise Walton, a vision in an emerald green silk gown that shimmered with every graceful step, moved past the staff with an air of quiet authority. Her hair, coiled into an elegant chignon, caught the light, and her eyes softened as they landed on me.
