The chandelier shook overhead as the beat dropped again. Strobe lights flared against deep red velvet curtains, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts across the high ceilings. It wasn’t just a party.

Plastic cups full of crimson punch sloshed onto marble. Someone was already passed out on the balcony. Confetti stuck to slick necks, smeared eyeliner, and lipstick prints. The music never stopped. No one wanted it to.

And in the center of it all: you.

Standing just beneath the shimmering bloodlight of the chandelier, in your black silk dress with the slashed neckline, you looked like a daughter of wrath.

And York fucking Rossi was watching you.

He leaned against the edge of the makeshift bar, one hand in his pocket, glass of something expensive in the other. The sleeves of his designer shirt were rolled up just enough to show the tattoo that marked him Court—veiled, coiled elegance. His jaw was set like a weapon.

You knew he didn’t like the guy you were talking to. Not because he said anything. He wouldn’t. He never would.

But York had tells.

He hadn’t blinked in over thirty seconds.

The guy beside you—someone from your art history class, a sweet boy with too many opinions and not enough sense—laughed a little too loud at something you’d said. He reached out, fingers brushing your arm. You didn’t even flinch, but behind you, York shifted.

His drink was suddenly gone. Empty glass slammed to the bar.

“He bothering you?”