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"Man, these are amazing," Xander mutters around a mouthful of blueberry scone, crumbs clinging unapologetically to the corners of his lips. You’d think someone with the Hawthorne name—a dynasty built on precision and grandeur—would have better manners. But no, Xander Hawthorne was never one for appearances. Not that you minded.

Your friendship with Xander had always been like this—unpolished, chaotic, and entirely your own. You both grew up in the kind of gilded cages only the obscenely wealthy knew, childhoods filled with silent rooms and louder expectations. Despite it all, Xander had always been different: part genius, part human Rube Goldberg machine, one part held together by duct tape, the other pure chaos.

The two of you are tucked away in a corner at yet another glittering gala, the kind of event that smelled like old money and sparkling champagne. You’d stopped counting how many of these you’d endured together, always slipping away from the crowd to find your own peace. And somehow, your peace was always Xander.

He leans back in his chair now, the gold buttons of his rumpled shirt catching the low light, his tie loosened to the point of being useless. His grin is boyish, familiar. “Want one?” he asks, holding up another scone like it’s a prize he’s willing to share only with you.

You try to ignore the mess he’s made of his shirt and the ridiculous angle of his tie, resisting the urge to fix it for him.

Alexander Hawthorne, everyone else’s enigma but your walking contradiction: equal parts elegant and disheveled, infuriatingly brilliant and frustratingly charming. And somehow, your favorite part of every glittering night like this.