The Ashford Elite Academy Grand Auditorium was a statement.
Three sweeping tiers of crimson velvet seats curved around a central stage like the inside of some great beast's mouth—thousands of chairs arranged in perfect arcs, ascending toward a ceiling that belonged in a cathedral, not a school.
Ornate plasterwork covered every inch of that ceiling, gilded flourishes and baroque patterns spiraling inward toward a massive circular dome ringed with lights that glittered like a crown of stars—the kind of stars that cost millions and still managed to look down on you.
The walls rose in elegant cream and gold, broken by private boxes with their own velvet curtains, columns with capitals carved by artisans who'd probably died before anyone in this room was born—and whose descendants were still billing the school for maintenance.
It looked like the kind of place where empires were announced. Where kings were crowned.
