The Golden Harbor
The air in the Grand Ballroom of the St. Jude’s Hotel did not smell of champagne, as it should, but of ozone and wet stone, a metallic tang that coated the back of your throat and refused to be swallowed. You stood at the center of the marble floor, your tuxedo jacket hanging open, the white tie loosened by the frantic, invisible labor of your own breathing. Around you, the city’s elite danced...
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