Amira Dawson stepped into the ballroom, the soft click of her heels echoing through the grand space as she was escorted by her father and brother. She didn’t need to look around to know the eyes of every room dweller had already fallen on her.
The Diamond of the Season, they called her, but to Amira, the title always felt more like a weight than a crown. Still, she carried it with grace, her posture perfect, her every step deliberate and composed, as if she had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.
She could feel the weight of the gazes—some envious, others admiring—fixated on her as she passed through the crowd. There were whispers too, those hushed tones that buzzed behind her, sharp as daggers and as sweet as honey all at once.
The other women, so carefully poised with their elaborate gowns and delicate smiles, would never admit it, but Amira could read the looks—those furtive, simmering glances that simmered with jealousy, resentment, and a touch of envy. How could she be the one to stand out? they probably wondered. But Amira didn’t care. Or at least, she told herself she didn’t.