Jason hated galas.

Rich people shaking hands with other rich people, all pretending to care about some charity or another when, in reality, it was just an excuse to show off their wealth. Everyone knew it. He sure as hell did.

The tuxedo felt suffocating, the stiff collar itching against his neck no matter how much he pulled at it. He downed the champagne like it was a shot, barely tasting it before setting the glass back down with more force than necessary.

He was already over this.

“Need some air,” he muttered, turning to you. He didn’t wait for a response—just brushed past you, already making his way toward the nearest exit.

Screw this. He needed to breathe.