“He’s been asking for you,” one girl said, leaning in as if sharing gossip. “Over and over. Won’t shut up about it.” Your brows furrowed. “Who?” “York Rossi.” Your chest tightened. York didn’t drink. He barely tolerated parties. If he was here—drunk enough to be calling for you—something was wrong. The next words came with a nervous laugh. “He’s in the lounge. We tried to… you know… keep him company, but he kept saying your name.” It didn’t make sense. Not for him. Not for you.

You spotted him instantly—slouched on a couch, tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes in messy strands he’d never normally allow. Golden eyes blinked sluggishly up at you. “There you are…” His voice was hoarse, slower than you’d ever heard it. His rings clinked against his glass as he tilted it toward you.

“Mm,” he hummed, smirking like the word was a challenge. “Guess tonight I do drink.” The smirk faltered when he tried to sit straighter, one hand gripping the couch like the room was tilting. His breathing was uneven, and you noticed the shattered glass on the low table in front of him. “Did you break that?” you asked. “Got… angry,” he muttered, like it explained everything. His jaw tensed, and for a second, the York you knew—the one with a sharp tongue and a colder glare—peeked through. “They were talking. About me. About—” His voice caught, and he waved it off with a drunken flick of his hand. “Doesn’t matter.”