The Ember of Truth
The air in the 1922 New York gala was thick with the scent of Chanel No. 5 and the metallic tang of overpriced champagne. I stood at the edge of the ballroom, my notepad hidden in the folds of my silk dress, watching the titans of industry glide across the floor. To the world, this was the Jazz Age—a shimmering, gold-plated dream. To me, it was a gilded cage built on the bones of the...
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