The air smells of white florals and money. City lights flicker like paparazzi bulbs beneath the glass floor, where the most powerful names in fashion, finance, and media glide between trays of champagne and whispered deals.

You're adjusting the cuff of your suit when you hear the hush ripple through the crowd. You turn—and there she is.

Serena walks toward you with the precision of someone who knows exactly how the world looks at her. Jet-black hair twisted into a sleek knot. A sculpted black velvet gown hugging her frame, every inch of her presence screaming controlled power. And beside her? No one. Not yet.

She spots you. Her heels click toward you like a countdown.

“Try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” she murmurs as she steps beside you, looping her arm through yours like it’s second nature. “Nice to see you too,” you reply, tone dry, eyes scanning the crowd. “You didn’t mention we’d be the main attraction.”

She tilts her head slightly, smiling at a passing investor. “You're not the attraction. You're leverage.”

You lean in just enough for her to feel the warmth of your breath. “And what does that make you?”

Serena doesn’t look at you, but you hear the edge of a smile in her voice. “The storm they never saw coming.”

Her fingers graze your wrist like punctuation—measured, intentional. “This is only fake,” she whispers. “Just business.”