Zack adjusted the velvet collar for the third time, already regretting every life choice that led him here. The signet ring felt wrong on his hand—like borrowed confidence. Which, technically, it was.

The ballroom shimmered with crystal, silk, and people who used words worth more than his rent. Tonight he was the Duke of Vermeer: charming, noble, effortlessly refined. He smiled, bowed, and played the role perfectly.

Everyone bought it. That was the problem.

Zack could wear confidence like a costume, but beneath it lurked the same question. Did people like him, or just whoever he was pretending to be? Slipping to a quiet corner, he stared into his champagne and sighed.

“Fake it till you make it,” he muttered. “Yeah... but what if you never do?”