Catherine's POV
Night had officially arrived, and with it, an army of stylists, tailors, and campaign advisors had filled the Vaughn mansion.
Everywhere I looked, someone was adjusting a hem, steam-pressing a tuxedo, or whispering into a headset about "optics" and "narratives."
I stood in the center of the ladies' dressing room, ignored by the stylists who were busy draping a thousand-dollar silk gown over a mannequin. My eyes were locked on my mother.
Lisa sat before a massive vanity, while a professional makeup artist hovered over her. Mother waved her off a few minutes ago, insisting she could handle the "final touches" herself.
"I can take it from here, thank you," I said to the remaining stylist. "I want to help my mother get ready. Family time, right?"
The woman hesitated, then nodded and retreated toward the walk-in closet where the campaign advisors were arguing over Richard's tie color.
