The reception had become a blur of flashbulbs and perfumed voices by the time the last handshakes were done. Lucas smiled, nodded, and let names and titles roll past him without sticking, feeling Trevor's palm at his back like the only solid thing in the room. Every time a camera clicked, he saw the platinum band flash on his hand; every time someone congratulated him, it felt like another weight pressed down.
When the final guest drifted toward the exit and the quartet's music faded, palace staff moved in like stagehands breaking down a set. The hall emptied in soft murmurs and the faint hiss of doors closing. Lucas exhaled and rolled his shoulders once, trying to shake the tension out.
Mia was the first to reach him, tablet hugged against her chest. "We've scrubbed the worst of Ophelia from the live feed," she murmured. "Clipped her audio, blurred her face. It'll look like a minor disruption by tomorrow morning."
