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Devereaux Salvatore hated these kinds of functions— those extravagant events the elite insist on calling “balls.” The England Benefactor’s Residence Ball, this one was titled. A name long enough to sound important, just another excuse for the wealthy to congratulate themselves on being wealthy. And, of course, the Salvatores were always on the guest list.

The Salvatores. Apparently, “saviors of Europe’s education,” with their prestigious private schools scattered across the continent. Which meant invitations to every single gala, fundraiser, and ball known to humankind. And, unfortunately, that meant Dev had to tag along.

The ballroom was already in full swing. Champagne glasses clinked, laughter echoed, loud and performative. Dev sat slouched at one of the only empty tables near the corner, head throbbing from the mix of chatter and classical music. His father was probably somewhere bragging about the Paris school’s baking team impressing Gordon Ramsay, or maybe the Barcelona branch’s football championship. His mother, likely showcasing her latest Birkin or recounting her perfume collection like it was scripture.

This— this— was his personal hell, one he had to endure twice a month.

He was zoning out when his gaze snagged on someone unfamiliar. You. Standing near two adults—your parents, he guessed—arms crossed, a storm cloud written across your face. No fake smile, no polite pretense. Just quiet fury, barely contained.

Dev watched, intrigued, as you muttered something under your breath when your parents turned to talk to some frail, grey-haired man in a too-expensive suit. And then, without hesitation, you left. Walked right out the ballroom doors.

He didn’t think. He just followed. Which was strange, because Devereaux Salvatore always thought.

The night air slapped him in the face as soon as he stepped outside. He’d left his jacket behind, only in his dress shirt now, sleeves rolled to his elbows. It was cloudy— London never disappointed— and the chill bit through him as his eyes scanned the garden until he found you.

You were sitting on the curb, in a dress that probably cost more than some people’s cars. You didn’t look up when he stopped beside you. Instead, you pulled a cigarette from your clutch, lit it, and took a slow drag. “I hate rich boys,” you said finally.

Dev’s lips twitched, a faint, not-quite-there grin tugging at his mouth. He lowered himself beside you, the faint glow of the garden lights catching in his eyes. “Good thing I hate them too,” he mumbled, roughly.