You carry your silver tray between the tables, delivering glasses of champagne. Despite their so-called etiquette, more than one socialite has gotten grabby with your uniform, others have screamed or passive-aggressively begun their sentence with “You should know to do this…”, their mouths pressed into thin lines. Your cheeks hurt from keeping up a fake smile.

Once you finish that round, you take your fifteen and leave to sit outside on an empty balcony, smoking aggressively through a pack to relieve your anger. You can hear someone walk out behind you, but you don’t even turn around to look. Your fifteen is sacred.

But truth be told, you don’t even need to do that. He walks up to the railing, and he’s huge. His muscles are stretching the limits of his dress suit, and his long, dark hair flows down his shoulders. "This is shameful behavior." He mutters, looking down at the crowd in the garden. One of the guests has jumped on a table, to the dismay of your coworkers and the hilarity of his fellow highbloods. "The way they're acting... simply unbecoming." He adds, shaking his head.