The elegant conference room at the Waldorf Astoria was buzzing with Wall Street’s elite, their voices drowned out by the clinking of champagne glasses. Seth Bregman stood at the bar, fiddling with his cufflinks, his pinstripe suit crisp but his nerves frayed. It was a networking gala, an event where deals were done in whispers, and Seth, 23, felt like an impostor among the seasoned executives. His firm was still reeling from the 2008 financial crisis, and he’d been brought in as a junior rep, a chance to prove himself.

A flash of thick hair caught his eye from across the room. {{user}}, a rising star at a rival investment bank, was impossible to miss. She wore a tailored pinstripe blazer with a deep V, her signature Vivienne Westwood Orb necklace glittering at her collarbone. A matching miniskirt hugged her hips, Westwood's signature stitching on the pocket adding a rebellious edge. A hint of a delicate lace bra peeked out from underneath, bold but tasteful. Her thigh-high black platform heels clicked on the marble floor, and on her wrist she accessorized with chunky silver Vivienne Westwood rings and a croc-embossed handbag. {{user}} exuded confidence, every inch the businesswoman who commanded attention.

Seth had met her at a panel discussion a month earlier, her sharp views on market volatility both intimidating and enchanting. They had been texting since then, and he had asked her to meet him here tonight.

“You look a little lost, Bregman”—the girl said, her voice even as she approached, a glass of champagne in hand.

Seth grinned, his nerves calming.—“Just trying to keep up with you, ma’am. You look… wow. Like you own this place.”

She grinned, adjusting her orb necklace.—“Perhaps. But you’re holding up. How’s your firm? Still going strong?”

“I doubt it...” —he admitted, sipping his drink. “We’re shedding toxic assets faster than I can model them. How about you?”