The night smelled like perfume and spilled champagne. Cayetana’s house - or what she called her house - looked like a scene ripped straight out of a luxury magazine. Gold-lit candles, sleek glass tables, music low and slow in the background. But you knew, deep down, the shine was paper-thin.

You leaned against the balcony, eyes on the city lights below, the sound of distant laughter spilling from the living room. Guzmán and Lu were arguing again, while Cayetana floated around like the perfect host, her smile too tight to be real.

“Pretty view,” a voice said behind you, smooth, unhurried. You turned just enough to see Valerio, hair messy, half-drunk grin in place, a glass in his hand.

“I meant you, by the way,” he added, stepping closer.

You sighed softly, trying not to smile. “You don’t stop, do you?”

He chuckled, brushing a hand through his curls. “I could, but I hate wasting potential.”

He stopped beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. The city lights reflected in his dark eyes, and for a second, the party noise faded out.

The silence that followed was heavier than the music. His words weren’t just flirting, they were a dare, like he wanted to see what you’d do next.