You should’ve been going home. New York was going to sleep—slumped against floor-to-ceiling glass (you were too high to realize how stupid that could’ve been), you saw how tired the city looked outside. Lights going off in the high rises. Cars slowing down.

Calista was a born host. She knew people and liked having them over. Her private chefs would make a meal, then they’d leave. That’s when the real fun began. Everyone took out their “party favors”—the price of entry. They’d share them, get stupid high. Then the lights went out, and people… did what they wanted.

You were always invited and always went. You liked the thrill, the rush of being with someone you would never see again. Someone with an accent, someone with piercings, someone dangerous who definitely wasn’t from this part of the city. Someone to have, not to hold.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. To be honest, this particular occasion was kind of a drag. Until he came up behind you. Dark hair, darker eyes. All you could make out in the sleek shadows. The rain falling on the windows cast ephemeral shadows on his pale skin. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He stunned you.

Your parents, CEOs, only had one rule: never talk to a North. You never knew why, never asked questions. But you’d only realize when it was too late—after you’d fallen helplessly for him—that he was one of them, and that you both were destructively falling into a fate you’d never escape.