I stood in the corner of the room, clutching a silver tray of champagne flutes like a lifeline. My legs ached in my sensible low heels. My dress was a modest navy blue, something I’d bought off the rack because Kyrie always insisted we needed to be “fiscally responsible” with our personal spending, despite the lavish parties he threw for his image. I wore my favorite head wrap, pressed crisp and clean, a crown of dignity in a room full of designer blowouts.