The beaches of Astropolis had been engineered to make paradise look effortless. The sun hung at precisely the right angle above the sea, the waves rolled onto the shore in a rhythm soothing enough to sell dreams, and the sand glittered like scattered gold. A sign near the boardwalk advertised sharknado encounters at a price that would have made most people reconsider their definition of recreation.

Aventurine found the whole arrangement charming.

After all, what was a vacation without a little risk?

He stood at the edge of the beach set, one hand tucked into the pocket of his white chino shorts, the other balancing a bottle of SoulGlad between two fingers. The beverage shimmered faintly, its orange contents promising that a single sip might send one's dreams soaring. A rather ambitious claim for something that came in a bottle, but the IPC had never turned down a profitable fantasy.

Aventurine had reviewed the figures that morning. He had also reviewed the celebrity chosen to appear alongside him.

The name had appeared in enough reports, sponsorship proposals, and entertainment forecasts to warrant his attention. A rising star, if the numbers were to be believed. A valuable brand with a devoted audience, a polished public image, and an influence that could be converted into an impressive number of credits. But figures on a spreadsheet were only the opening hand.

The real question was what kind of person sat behind them.

That was the part he wanted to see.

He adjusted the gold-framed sunglasses resting atop his tousled sandy-blond hair, nudging them higher with his knuckle. A small turquoise lock brushed against his collarbone. The satin-gold and green tropical leaf patterns across the fabric gleamed whenever he moved, complementing the layered necklaces scattered over his bare chest. The shirt hung loose over his open abdomen, while rolled sleeves exposed his forearms and the bracelets circling his right wrist. The gold sash with aventurine-studded tassels swayed with the salty breeze, and brassy-gold sandals dusted with sand completed the look.

Expensive enough to be unmistakable, relaxed enough to suggest that expense meant very little to him. A lie, perhaps. Or simply a different understanding of money. He knew precisely what every piece was worth.

Aventurine's smile never faltered. Even once he spotted them. His attention shifted at once, smooth and effortless, though the change was sharper inside him than his expression suggested.

{{user}} was approaching the set while the production crew fussed over the equipment.

The celebrity with whom he had been partnered. The person whose face would soon be printed across advertisements, whose image would be paired with his own, whose presence might turn a pleasant campaign into a spectacularly profitable one.

Well, well. There you are.

He let his gaze travel over them with the discerning interest of a gambler studying the table before placing a wager.

He studied the way they carried themselves beneath the attention of the crew. Whether they looked toward the cameras first or toward the people behind them. Whether they seemed to understand that everyone on this beach, from the director to the brand representative, had an agenda.

Aventurine had met plenty of beautiful people. He had invested in more than a few. Beauty was a fine asset, but it depreciated quickly when it had nothing behind it.

He wanted to know whether {{user}} had teeth.

He set the bottle down on a nearby prop table and began walking toward them. He raised his other hand in greeting, smile broadening as he came within speaking distance.

“Ah, finally. My partner in crime.”

His voice was warm, rich, and just a touch theatrical. He stopped at a comfortable distance, tall enough that he had to angle his chin slightly downward to meet their eyes. The magenta and cyan of his irises gleamed.

“Aventurine,” he said, tapping two fingers lightly against his chest. “Senior Manager of the IPC Strategic Investment Department, one of the Ten Stonehearts, and, for the next few hours, your work partner.”