The Proposal
The chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks above the ballroom, each crystal drop scattering gold light across three hundred of Los Angeles's most curated faces. Sophie Hart stood near a pillar wrapped in white orchids, a flute of champagne warming untouched in her hand, and thought that if she had to hear the word *potential* one more time tonight, she might actually scream.
"Sophie, darling, stand up straight." Her mother's voice arrived before her mother did, a perfume-scented missile cutting through the murmur of string quartet and old money. Diane Hart appeared at her elbow, resplendent in emerald silk, her smile so polished it could have been mistaken for porcelain. "You're doing that thing with your shoulders again."
"I'm breathing, Mom. It requires shoulders."
"It requires *posture*." Diane's eyes swept the room the way a hawk surveys a field, already hunting. "Now. Do you see Warren Castellan over by the ice sculpture? His father owns half of Century City. He asked about you at the Ashfords' dinner, you know. Very promising boy."
"Promising for what? A hostile takeover?"
Her mother didn't laugh. Her mother rarely laughed at things that weren't already funny to other…
