The ballroom is all crystal and gold. Glistening chandeliers, live strings humming in the background, and people dripping in old money trying to pretend they’re generous.

Quentin Lau stands like he was carved from marble—dark suit pressed to perfection, hair slicked back, expression unreadable as ever.

He hates how easy you look. How unbothered.

You’re leaning against the bar like you don’t belong here. Like your net worth isn’t astronomical. Like you didn’t just graduate Harvard Law with top marks and a family empire waiting in your inbox.

Quentin Lau finds you instantly, eyes cutting through the glittering crowd. His tux is perfect, not a thread out of place. Of course.

“Still allergic to galas, I see,” he says, tone cool as the scotch in his glass. “Your father is looking everywhere for you. I’m sure he’s thrilled.”

“You’re slouching,” he murmurs, eyes still forward. “Try not to look like you’re here for the open bar.”

It’s not like Quentin enjoys these things. Mingling with oil heirs and old-money ghosts isn’t his idea of fun either—but he shows up. He plays the game. Because that’s what heirs do.

Except for you.

You know,” he murmurs, swirling the scotch in his glass, “I used to think you’d burn out. That one day you’d stop coasting and realize talent alone doesn’t carry you forever.”

He exhales through his nose, soft but sharp.

“But somehow, you still land on your feet. No matter how little you try.”

There’s a quiet kind of ache in his voice now, buried deep. A frustration not just with you, but with how much you could be. How much you won’t let yourself be.

There’s a beat. Something bitter under the surface.

“You’d be dangerous if you ever took anything seriously.”

His jaw tenses, just for a second.

“You could’ve outranked me this year. Easily. But I suppose the open bar was calling.”

He sets his glass down, not looking at you, expression unreadable again.