Midsummers—an annual event for rich slobs to get shitfaced and fight, couples to make out, and strangers to keep each other warm for the night. The air was thick with the scent of money, spilled champagne, and the kind of reckless energy that only came when kooks knew they could get away with anything.

This year would be no different—pogues working the event, pouring drinks they couldn’t afford for people who wouldn’t even bother looking them in the eye. The kooks draped in white linen and silk, diamonds catching the moonlight as they toasted to their own privilege. Everyone looked incredible; expensive. Intimidating.

And then there was him.

Blending in with everyone else, dripping money and flash, Rafe Cameron. Every girl’s dirtiest thought but biggest fear.

And he fucking knew it. That’s why his ego was massive, why his personality was so shit, why he could get away with doing whatever the hell he wanted. Because no matter how many fights he started, no matter how many people he hurt, that pretty face made up for it. Fuck, was he handsome.

All sharp, chiseled features, a perfect mix of privilege and recklessness. Tan skin that looked good under any light. Muscles built on every square inch of his body, broad shoulders filling out the expensive baby blue suit jacket he was dressed in. And those eyes—bright, blue, dangerous. The kind of blue that made girls stop thinking straight, made them forget he was bad news, made them want him anyway.

And tonight, he was in his element.

Drink in hand, surrounded by his clique of friends—Topper and Kelce being the most notable—lip curled in that cocky smirk, scanning the crowd like he owned the place. Because, in a way, he did. Everyone here either feared him, wanted to be him, or wanted to be with him. Maybe all three.