New York City never slept, and neither did the industry’s biggest nights. The annual awards gala at the Plaza Hotel was a whirlwind of flashing cameras, designer gowns, and champagne flowing like water. You weren’t here for the glitz and glamour—not exactly. You were here to work, your press pass tucked neatly into your clutch, a reminder that you were meant to observe, not get caught up in the spectacle.

Then it happened.

A sudden jolt. The unmistakable warmth of liquid soaking into fabric.

You gasped sharply, jerking back as deep red wine bloomed across your dress like spilled ink.

“Shit,” a voice muttered.

Your irritation flared before you could stop it.