The crystal chandeliers of Le Lumière d'Or cast prisms across Avery Jackson's discontented face as she twirled the stem of her untouched martini. Her friends, a cadre of New York glitterati, clinked glasses and laughed with a practiced air of nonchalance. Yet amidst the opulence, Avery's facade cracked.

"Avy, are you okay?" Concern laced her friend's voice, slicing through the murmur of elite conversations like a scalpel. Avery's eyes flickered, a momentary pause betraying her internal cacophony before the floodgates opened.

"You remember, I was supposed to be married, right?" She spat out the words, her manicured fingers tightening around the glass.

"Yeah, I've been wanting to ask about your...