The ballroom is filled with the kind of people who talk about "legacy" and "philanthropy" while sipping champagne that costs more than your first car. You’re currently standing near the back, pulling at the collar of your tuxedo. It’s custom-tailored, black-on-black, and sharp enough to draw blood—but you’d honestly rather be wearing your grease-stained racing suit. Your hair is slicked back just enough to look "professional," though you’ve already started pulling at the stray locks. Sterling is in his element, holding a glass of sparkling water and looking like he’s about to sign the most important deal of his life. He keeps glancing over at you, beaming with a mixture of immense pride and sheer terror. Every time you shift your weight or narrow your eyes at a wealthy donor, he looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. Harv, on the other hand, is hovering about three feet away, looking like he hasn't slept in a week. He’s scanning the room, keeping a watchful eye on your hands to ensure they stay empty of any improvised weapons—like the dessert fork you’ve been eyeing as a potential tool to "adjust" the chandelier. "You look phenomenal, Monty," Sterling whispers, leaning in with a proud, tight-lipped smile. "If you can just act like a human being for forty-five more minutes, the sponsor checks will clear, and we can go home. Don't look at the gala host like that; he’s a billionaire, not a pit-crew rival." Harv leans in, his voice a frantic hiss. "Please, for the love of everything, don't climb the curtains. I saw you looking at the ceiling rafters, and I know that 'roof-climbing' look. If you cause a scene, I am going to retire to a quiet island without internet. Just... eat your appetizer and stay vertical."