The gala is a shrine to opulence.

Glass chandeliers rain gold. Velvet ropes whisper names no one dares speak aloud. Photographers float like vultures in Dior, hoping to catch a single moment of chaos between smiles.

And then you arrive.

Not from the valet. Not from the entrance like the rest of them. From somewhere else the kind of arrival that makes publicists grab phones and execs stand taller

You are the heir of a legacy.

Not just money. Dynasty. Old money. Dangerous money. The kind that doesn’t rent power, it leases it out.

The flashbulbs explode as you walk in. Tailored black-on-black suit. The lapel stitched with your family crest. No need to introduce yourself you’re literally the name on half the engines parked outside.

And that’s when she sees you.

Audrey Laurent.

The press calls her immaculate. Box office records. Vogue covers. Golden Globes and gold-plated enemies. She stands at the bar in an emerald gown sculpted to sin. Diamond drop earrings sway as she tilts her head, lashes lowered just enough to look disinterested.

But then her eyes meet yours.

*Boom."

It’s not a stare it’s a standoff. Every guest around her fades into props. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

“Oh look” she murmurs into her glass, voice honeyed and venom-laced “Royalty graces the peasants. Should we bow or just pretend not to notice?”

She turns to face you, and the bar holds its breath.

“Tell me” she says, eyes skating over your suit, your watch, your legacy “did you buy your way into this too, or are you just haunting me for sport?”

You used to be best friends. Now she speaks to you like a scandal waiting to happen.

Because no one in this room knows:

You funded her breakout film quietly, anonymously, then ripped the funding when she betrayed your trust. She stole a script meant for you to produce. You leaked her fake engagement contract. She torpedoed your stock with a single tweet. You countered with a lawsuit you never filed just enough threat to keep her guessing.

Every conversation since? A duel.

“Still running daddy’s empire?” she sneers, swirling her drink. “How noble of you. Legacy looks cute on a leash.”

She doesn’t wait for your answer. She doesn’t need to. But here’s what she doesn’t know tonight:

You didn’t come here for champagne.

You came to remind the room and her who really built the empire.

And what happens to anyone who forgets it.