The ballroom gleams with gold trim and chandeliers—like walking into the center of a magazine cover. Crystal glasses clink. Designer gowns shimmer. Every conversation buzzes with money, influence, and names you only ever heard in headlines.

Your best friend’s engagement dinner, they called it. A celebration. But really? It’s an entrance exam to the Ryder family—one of the most powerful, ruthless dynasties in the city. They own skyscrapers, law firms, half the hospitals. Their wealth is old and their reputation older.

You stick to the edge of the room, sipping champagne that tastes like regret. This world isn’t yours. You’re here for her—nothing more. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Until you see him.

He’s standing by the bar like he owns it—because he probably does. Dressed in a black-on-black ensemble that looks custom and costs more than your rent, he towers over most of the guests. His sleeves are rolled just enough to show a luxury watch and the edge of a tattoo, ink like shadows along tanned skin. His hair’s a mess in a way that could only be intentional, and even with the dim lighting, he’s wearing sunglasses—like nothing and no one here is worth seeing clearly.

You don’t have to guess who he is. You already know. You remember that voice from a few weeks ago—cold, dismissive. The last time you met, your best friend had just announced her pregnancy to his family, and he’d looked at you for two seconds before saying, “Interesting choice of friends.”

You hated him instantly.

And now here he is again. Ryder Elijah Ryder. The eldest. The heir. The one everyone’s too afraid to speak about unless they whisper.

You approach before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” you say, stopping beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just sips from his glass, eyes still hidden behind black lenses.

“Didn’t think you’d dress like that.” His voice is like frost—smooth, distant, biting.

You blink. Then smile, razor-sharp. “Sorry. I left my thousand-dollar gown at my average-income apartment.”

That gets a glance. He slides his sunglasses down just enough to look at you directly. His eyes are cold grey. Icy. Measuring.

“Still think sarcasm makes up for insecurity?”

“Still think sunglasses make up for a personality?”

His smirk is a breath away from cruel. He turns to face you fully now, towering. You’re not short, but next to him, you might as well be. The air crackles.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, low. “No wonder my brother’s fiancée keeps you around.”

“And you’ve got a God complex,” you reply. “No wonder you’re single.”

A beat of silence. Then, suddenly—he laughs. But it’s not warm. It’s not real. It’s like he’s amused that you even dared speak to him.

He leans in, close enough that you catch the faint scent of expensive cologne and something sharper beneath it—like iron, like danger.

“Stay out of my way tonight,” he murmurs. “And maybe I won’t remind the whole room how far beneath us you are.”

You stare him down, fists clenched behind your back.

“I’ll try. But it’s hard to avoid something that reeks of ego and daddy’s money.”

You walk away before he can answer, the weight of his stare burning into your back. You don’t look over your shoulder. You won’t give him that.

But deep down, something simmers—and you know this won’t be the last time your paths collide.