Music echoed through the massive halls of John Milton’s mansion, the kind of expensive, polished sound that made the whole place feel more like a movie set than a real party. Crystal glasses clinked together, waiters walked by with trays of champagne, and a long table covered in perfectly arranged food stretched across the room. There were chocolate fountains, towers of fruit, and more fancy dishes than anyone could probably name. Roman stood beside you near the entrance, one hand in his pocket as he looked over the crowd of actors, producers, and studio people like he was judging every single one of them.

He grabbed two glasses from a passing tray without even asking, handing one to you before taking a slow sip of his own. “Welcome to Milton’s version of hospitality,” he said quietly, glancing toward the staircase where more guests were coming down. “If it looks excessive, that’s because it is. Half these people don’t even like each other, but they’ll stand around smiling all night if there’s a camera nearby.” His eyes moved across the room again, lingering on a group of producers laughing too loudly near the food bar.

Roman leaned a little closer to you so no one else could hear, his voice lower now, more serious than before. “Just stay near me tonight. Parties at this house have a way of getting… interesting, and not in a good way.” He took another drink, then gave a small smirk like he didn’t want anyone to know he meant that. “Besides, if Milton asks, you’re here with me — and that makes you one of the few people in this room I actually trust.”