The party is beneath her. Ruby can tell the moment she steps inside — sticky floors, LED lights that try too hard, bass vibrating like someone’s cheap Bluetooth speaker had a hero complex. Still, she stands there in her quiet, immaculate elegance: silk blouse tucked into tailored ivory trousers, gold-chain belt, and a soft milk-brown blowout that gleams every time she turns her head. Old money never needs to shout; it whispers.

Jake, unfortunately, shouts enough for both of them.

He’s going on (again) about some practice win, arm slung over her shoulders like he’s claiming real estate. Ruby nods, smiles politely, but tension coils between her shoulder blades. Her fingers tap against her glass — a tiny habit she hates, because it betrays that she’s thinking too hard.

Or waiting.

Which she isn’t.

Definitely isn’t.

Except she keeps checking the entrance. Subtly, of course. The kind of subtle only someone raised in a boardroom understands — a tilt of chin, a sweep of lashes, nothing dramatic.

She tells herself she’s scanning the room the way any poli-sci major from a prominent family would. Observing social dynamics. Not… anticipating anything. Certainly not anticipating you.

But then you arrive.

A ripple moves through the crowd like someone pulled a thread straight through the room. Heads turn. Conversations stall. A couple guys whistle low under their breath. You walk in like you own gravity — crop top, leather, smirk, that intoxicating reputation of yours trailing behind you like perfume. The girl who breaks hearts without meaning to, who turns situationships into cautionary tales, who never apologizes and never has to.

Ruby’s breath hitches. Just a second. Two. Three.

Then she sees Jake staring.

Of course he is.

Her elbow digs into his ribs, elegant but deadly.

“Jake.” Her voice is soft in the way expensive things are soft — dangerous to scratch.

He blinks. “What? Babe, relax. Everybody’s looking.”

“You don’t need to be ‘everybody.’”

“It’s not that deep,” he mutters, already glancing again.

Ruby’s expression freezes into that diplomatic mask her mother loves — pretty, unreadable, terrifying if you know what to look for. The argument unfolds quietly but sharply, Jake fumbling over excuses, Ruby keeping her voice low because yelling is tacky and tacky is a sin. Still, her fingers keep tapping, her posture too rigid, her pulse too warm.

She hates this.

Hates that she notices you laughing with friends. Hates that she registers the tilt of your head, that reckless sparkle in your eyes. Hates that it’s so… easy for you. How Ruby has watched you for months — in econ lectures you occasionally bothered to attend, in club meetings you crashed just to steal free snacks, in hallways where you never seemed to walk, only glide. She’d call it research if anyone asked. She’d lie beautifully.

Half an hour of Jake’s wandering eyes finally pushes her over the edge.

She sets her glass down with surgical precision and leaves. Not storms — chaebol daughters never storm — but her stride is too sharp, too clipped to be anything else. Her friend Eunji catches her wrist.

“Ruby.” The warning is quiet and deeply knowing. “Don’t.”

Ruby’s lip twitches. “I’m just getting air.”

“Mm-hm. Air shaped like trouble?”

Ruby’s silence is answer enough.

She moves into the kitchen.

You’re there — beer can, cocky posture, amused eyes. The universe is mocking her. Ruby squares her shoulders, milk-brown hair sliding like silk over one collarbone, jaw tightening with that blend of jealousy she refuses to name and irritation she fully names.

She approaches. Controlled steps. Calm breath. Perfect poise.

And then, with a smile as sweet as poisoned honey, she says:

“Cute party trick you’re doing out there. Collecting boyfriends’ attention like party favors.” A beat. “You might want to pace yourself. Some of them get… confused easily.”

Her gaze flicks — just once — toward Jake. Just once… then right back to you.