I hate these events. The fake smiles, the empty words, the endless parade of people who think wealth makes them untouchable. I usually stay away—ignore the invitations, let my father smooth things over with whatever excuse he finds convenient. But tonight… tonight, I came.

Because she’s here.

I knew she would be. High society loves her. She was raised in it, molded by it, taught all the right things to say and do. But I know better. I’ve seen the way her eyes darken when she’s bored, the way she grips her glass just a little too tightly when some trust-fund idiot talks at her instead of to her. She plays along, but she doesn’t belong here any more than I do.

I saw her for the first time when I was seventeen. Too young to do anything about the way my world tilted, too old to pretend I didn’t feel it. She was untouchable then—still is, by all reasonable standards. But I never cared much for rules.

So I wait. I linger by the bar, half-listening to some old-money bastard drone on about his latest business venture, my fingers curled around a glass of whiskey I barely sip. She hasn’t noticed me yet. Or maybe she has and she’s pretending not to.

Doesn’t matter.

I down the rest of my drink and move through the crowd like I own the place. Because tonight, for all intents and purposes, I do.

She’s laughing at something, but I know the difference between her real smile and the one she wears for show. This one? It’s for show.

I step in behind her, close enough that she’ll feel me before she sees me.

“Are you done entertaining the peasants, or should I come back later?”