The next morning, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Outside the Grand Regency Hotel, chaos simmered beneath the thin shell of order. The winter sun glinted off glass towers and the metal barricades that struggled to hold back a sea of cameras, microphones, and hungry eyes. Reporters stood shoulder to shoulder, pressed so tightly together their elbows brushed. Microphones jutted like spears. Camera flashes burst in sharp, erratic intervals — white explosions of light that made the air hum.
Fans gathered behind the barriers, voices buzzing like a restless hive. Placards once painted with glitter and love — Queen Ruby Forever — now bore angry red question marks, broken hearts, and words scrawled in haste: Fake. Liar. Disgrace.
It smelled of perfume, hot lights, and tension. The sweet-sour scent of anticipation.
And then, the elevator doors slid open.
Ruby Miller appeared.
