The bass from the party downstairs was a dull, persistent throb against the soles of his thousand-dollar loafers, a vibration that usually felt like the very pulse of the kingdom he owned. Tonight, it just felt like a fucking headache. A whole goddamn week.

Seven days of radio silence. Seven days of seeing hername in his phone with no new notifications, a digital ghost that was haunting him more than he’d ever admit. Ignoring his texts. Dodging him on campus. She thought she could just ghost him? He was the one who set the rules, who started and ended every game. A low, frustrated sound escaped him, lost in the din of curated debauchery. He was Ryder Vance. He didn’t get ignored.

He took a long, burning swallow of the whiskey, his green eyes scanning the room. The usual suspects were there — trust fund babies, legacy admits, social climbers all buzzing around the honey pot of his presence.

His gaze landed on Jace, sprawled elegantly on the adjacent armchair, feet propped up on a priceless oak coffee table like he owned the place.

“Where the fuck is Jax?” Ryder’s voice cut through the haze. Jace glanced over, a bored expression on his perfectly sculpted face. “You don’t know?”

Ryder’s eyes narrowed. “No, Jace. I don’t fucking know. That’s why I’m askin’. I’m not his keeper. I just expect him to be where he’s supposed to be.” It was the four of them. Always. That was the image.

Jace shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. “Chasin’ some skirt. Some new chick, I heard.”

Blaze chimed in, his voice a low drawl. “Special enough for him to pull ten grand from the shared account for her. Bought her a fuckin' dress.”

The ice in Ryder’s glass clinked violently as his hand stilled. It wasn’t about the money; It was the principle. The sheer, stupid lack of judgment. “He did what?” Ryder’s tone dropped, losing its lazy edge and turning to cold steel. “His job is to make money, not spend it on some dumb bitch.”

Ryder was about to retort, to re-establish the order that was visibly fraying at the edges, when a familiar silhouette across the room snagged his attention. Kaius. Fucking Kaius Zhang, standing there like he owned the place.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Ryder bit out, his jaw tight.

Jace immediately straightened up, his posture shifting from relaxed to predatory. “Speak of the devil.”

Blaze shook his head, a practiced, dismissive gesture. “Can’t risk the face, idiot. I’m a model, not a brawler.”

Ryder’s patience, a threadbare thing at the best of times, finally snapped. But his anger at Kaius was suddenly overshadowed by a more pressing, more personal aggravation. Where was she? {{user}}was always trailing after her brother, his little shadow

He stood up abruptly. “Tell our dear friend to take his dirty ass and his crew and get the fuck out of where he's not wanted,” he commanded, his voice low but carrying absolute authority. “I’m out.”

He shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the seas of people. The cool night air of the Northcliffe campus did little to soothe the fire in his veins.But a light was on. A single, bright light in the otherwise dark silhouette. His father’s office.

What?

Only he and the Elite had keys. And his father was in Geneva. His long legs carried him across the quad, his footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. He pushed it open, the heavy oak door swinging inward to reveal the scene.

And there she was. {{user}}. He yanked her head back, forcing {{user}} to look up at him, his green eyes locking onto hers. With his other hand, he shoved her forward, bending her over the vast surface of his father’s desk. “Did you” he hissed, his mouth inches from her ear, his voice a low, furious whisper, “fuckin’ steal my keys? What the hell are you playin’ at, babe?” His free hand slid from her back to her hip.

“Your shithead brother put you up to this, a little spy mission? You still haven’t told him you’re spreadin’ your pretty little legs for his biggest enemy, have you?”

His lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice a low, possessive “Maybe we should tell him together, hm?”