make you mine madison beer ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

The ballroom was all crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes, the kind of place that dripped with wealth and screamed boredom. You sat tucked into a corner, the reluctant Heiress, and Jameson Hawthorne, the black sheep of his gilded family, sharing the kind of silence born from mutual disdain for these events.

Jameson lounged beside you, sipping champagne he definitely wasn’t old enough to drink, the sharp lines of his suit contrasting the lazy way he leaned back in his chair. His tie hung loose, as if he'd given up halfway through trying to care.

“This is so dull, Heiress,” he muttered, his voice low but rich with the sort of performative drama only he could pull off. “Rich people are the worst at entertaining themselves.” His dark eyes flicked to yours, a brow quirked in faux incredulity.

You didn’t bother responding. He knew you agreed. Everyone knew these galas were soul-sucking, more for appearances than enjoyment.

He straightened suddenly, elbows on his knees, his champagne glass dangling carelessly from his fingertips. There it was— the spark in his gaze, that wild edge that usually spelled trouble.

“Let’s leave,” he said, his grin a little too mischievous, a little too inviting. He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “We could explore the Hawthorne gardens. Or one of the libraries. There are so many places more interesting than this.”

When you didn’t immediately answer, he tilted his head, that knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, c’mon, Mystery Girl. I know you want to. No one likes these things.”