The night had the pulse of a city that never slept, and from theterrace of 432 Park Avenue, Manhattan stretched beneath melike a river of gold and neon. Lights reflected off glass towers,and somewhere below, tires hissed against rain-slick streets,a heartbeat synchronized with mine. Inside, the gala roaredwith opulence-Dior gowns, Valentino tuxedos, Dom Pérignonchilled just so-but the spectacle didn't hold my attention. Shedid.Johnika moved through the crowd like a subtle flare of flamethat refused to be contained. Grey ash-blonde hair tumbledover warm cinnamon shoulders, catching the chandeliers'glow. Her eyes-gold touched with sky-tracked the roomwith serene intelligence. I had always known she carriedsomething extraordinary, but tonight, the air itself bentaround her presence. Her fire was quiet, restrained, but ithummed against the polished marble floor. A whisper to thosewho could see it.
