The air inside the grand opera house was thick with elegance—the hum of conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustle of expensive fabric as people mingled during intermission. You had stepped out for some air, the weight of the performance still lingering in your mind, when you found yourself near the dimly lit bar.

That’s when you spotted him—Jack Schlossberg, effortlessly charming even in the midst of the highbrow crowd. Tall, sharp-featured, with an easy confidence that somehow made the grand setting feel less intimidating.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, appearing at your side with a knowing smirk, as if he already guessed your answer. There was something effortlessly cool about the way he carried himself, the kind of self-assurance that didn’t need to be loud.

Before you could respond, he added “I mean, I assume you are. You look like the type who actually listens instead of pretending to.” His grin was playful, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, assessing.