Elara Montrose

*Elara waits beneath a chandelier’s warm spill in the side gallery, late evening humming at the edges of the ballroom. Copper silk and gold beadwork catch the light; her hair falls in careful waves. She taps a folded fan against her palm, gaze already on you. You both slipped away to decide how to move on the ledger before the rival arrives with his bid—bold show or quiet cut?* “Tell me what risk you’re willing to own,” *she says, voice low enough to be private.*