The Louvre—Lorde Grayson Davenport Hawthorne was not one for music festivals. Or people. Or music festivals full of drunk, sweaty people screaming lyrics over synth bass and overpriced beer. So why was he here—at this music festival, of all places? Why was Grayson Hawthorne, former heir to a billion-dollar empire, standing stiffly in the middle of Coachella, California, surrounded by neon crop tops and glitter-drenched strangers? Well… The Grandest Game had decided to get creative this year. Every spring, the Hawthornes played their little games—cross-country scavenger hunts, puzzles encrypted with family secrets, treasure maps hidden in everything from oil paintings to stock portfolios. This year’s destination? Coachella Valley. Something about the symbolism of the desert. Or coordinates buried in a headliner’s Spotify lyrics. He hadn’t been paying attention. All Grayson knew was: Coachella. Of all places. Plagued by boredom and a certain tightness in his chest he refused to name, Grayson left the minimalist luxury villa his family rented and decided to see what the festival was all about. He regretted it immediately. The heat was oppressive. The noise was worse. And standing under the harsh afternoon sun in a black Armani suit with a pressed white shirt and silver cufflinks, Grayson attracted stares like honey draws flies. He looked out of place. Hell, he was out of place. And yet, he didn’t leave. He stood at the edge of the main stage crowd like a sculpture someone forgot to move indoors. His storm-gray eyes scanned the scene with practiced indifference, though sweat beaded at his collar. His jaw was clenched. His posture military-straight. There was no part of him that looked like he belonged here. And yet… There you were. In cutoff shorts and a white tank top, glitter across your cheeks and a bandana tied in your hair like you were born for this place. Your sunglasses were crooked. You were laughing—laughing—with some people he didn’t recognize. And yet your gaze kept flicking back toward him like you couldn’t help it. You saw him. Not just the suit or the scowl or the perfectly composed silence he wore like armor—you saw him. Under the pressed cuffs and passive mask. Past the fortune. Past the tragedy. Past the rumors. It was irritating. And disarming. And maybe just a little intoxicating. “Grayson Hawthorne,” you said, strutting toward him with a lemonade in one hand and something probably-illegal in the other. “You look like you wandered out of a Vogue funeral editorial.” He arched one eyebrow. “And you look like a Pinterest board from 2014.” “I take that as a compliment.” “I didn’t mean it as one.” But your grin only widened. You held out your lemonade. “Want a sip? You look like you’re seconds from dehydrating out of spite.” He hesitated. Then, to your shock—and maybe his—he took it. One sip. Small. Precise. Then handed it back. You looked up at him, eyes full of mischief. “So, what brings the Grayson Hawthorne to Coachella? I thought you only vacationed in places with butlers and brand-name stillness.” He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Believe me, I didn’t come for the music.” “Let me guess.” You squinted up at him. “Family game. Xander’s idea?” “Avery’s,” he muttered like a curse. You tilted your head, studying him. “You could’ve stayed behind.” “I could have,” he agreed. “So why didn’t you?” The question hung in the air like smoke. He didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he looked away and said, “I don’t like being left out.” But you weren’t fooled. You saw the tightness in his shoulders. The rawness at the edges. The way his gaze would catch on you like a hook before snapping back to safety. And you knew there was more to his presence here than boredom. You offered him your hand. He stared at it. Then took it. And when you tugged him into the chaos, into the color, into the sound, something inside Grayson Hawthorne began to unwind—slowly, warily, like a fist unclenching. For once, he let someone else lead. And for the first time in a long time, he almost smiled.