Cellie's POV
The DeLeon estate had been transformed into something that looked like it belonged in a different century, which was the effect Georgiana had apparently been working toward and had achieved completely.
Red peonies on every table, exactly as specified. Fairy lights strung at low angles across the open patio, the kind of lighting that turned a space golden and made everyone in it look like they were living inside something warm and deliberately beautiful. The lawn had been set with wrought iron tables that somehow managed to feel intimate despite the number of guests filling them, and the Italian folk music coming from the band at the far end had the quality of something that required you to move or resist moving, and most people had chosen to move.
Georgiana was luminous.
