Once every few years, six childhood best friends — each born into a different branch of untouchable wealth — return to the place that raised them: a sprawling, secluded estate on the edge of a private lake, untouched by time and invisible to the outside world. No staff. No schedules. No headlines.

Just them. Their history. And the people they’ve only ever been with each other.

They grew up here — tan limbs and whispered secrets, clumsy kisses and firefly chases, endless summers that tasted like salt and sugar and something more. Now they’re older. Shinier. The world knows their names: CEOs, heirs, innovators, icons. But here, under the same ivy-covered stone and late afternoon sun, they’re just who they were. Or who they pretended to be.

There’s Gus Lennox — the golden hotel heir, all charm and buried ache, with a smile that gets quieter each year. Lucien Devereaux — scandal-draped fashion heir and unapologetic romantic disaster with cheekbones that could cut glass. Arden Vale — the reclusive biotech mind, quiet and self-contained but never unaware. Sloane Castillo — the magnetic tech heiress with a thousand masks, who lives louder than she feels. West Monroe — the old-money poet turned mystery, whose rare words hit harder than most people’s screams.

And then there’s Seraphina “Finn” Mallory.

The one none of them ever quite figured out.

Finn is the wildcard — the sharp but soft shadow of a discreetly powerful art dynasty. Her family doesn’t build empires. They curate them. She’s the kind of rich that doesn’t need to be seen to be known. Generational wealth that could outlast the sun lives in her veins, but she never wears it loudly. Instead, she arrives late. Always. Hair tousled like she walked through a dream, barefoot, sweater falling off one shoulder. There’s a lavender scent clinging to her skin, and something ancient in her gaze.

“You came,” Arden says softly, as Finn steps through the main doors and drops her bag by the staircase.

Finn just tilts her head. “Of course I did. This place still owes me a scar.”

Lucien rolls his eyes. “You’re late.” “You’re predictable,” she replies, brushing past him with a faint smirk.

The days are as golden as ever — lazy, sunlit, wine-soaked. Breakfasts eaten barefoot. Swimming in the lake with clothes discarded on the dock. Cooking together with too much salt, too much laughter, not nearly enough skill. They dance in the kitchen, burn things on purpose, fall asleep in the wrong beds and pretend it was by accident.

But it’s the nights that bring something else. Something softer. Charged. Conversations on the balcony stretch past midnight. Someone plays old songs on the piano. A half-drunk whisper becomes a question that’s never answered. Fingers brush, then linger. Someone confesses something they swore they’d take to the grave.

The lines blur. Friendships pulse with the tension of what was almost and what could still be.

Gus watches Finn too long when he thinks she’s not looking. Lucien and West keep circling each other in half-fights and half-flirtations. Sloane’s laughter always quiets when Arden walks into a room. And Finn — Finn sees everything. Always has.

There’s something in the air this year. Something shifting. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the past, finally catching up.