I laugh into my clutch. “Okay. Maya’s right. We need rules. We can’t just Rawdog this party.”
“Rule one,” Maya says immediately. “Keep Dr. Fiddlestorm the Third in your pants tonight, Jeremy. We don’t need a repeat of the limoncello incident.”
Jeremy looks personally attacked. “That was art.”
“You got banned from an entire conference...for life.”
“Iliberatedthe vibe.”
I snort. “Okay, rule two: No splitting up without texting the group. This is a party, not a horror movie.”
Maya adds, straight-faced. “If anyone offers me shoulder rubs and starts a sentence with ‘I’m actually an empath,’ I’m setting something on fire.”
“What’s the signal for ‘I’m being emotionally kidnapped?’” Jeremy snaps a selfie.
“Three winks,” Maya answers.
“What if you just have dust or an eyelash in your eye?”
“Assume the worst first,” Maya counters.
“Rule three,” I add, “Donotdrink anything that glows in the dark.”
Offended, Jeremy places a hand over his heart. “That’s targeting me specifically, and I’m choosing to ignore the shade.”
“You went missing for four hours and came back with a feather boa and no eyebrows,” Maya says flatly.
“I was reborn.”
“In someone’s hot tub?”
Jeremy just shrugs. “Fine. Rule four: make an entrance so legendary it gets me a modeling contract and you both a book deal.”
Maya sighs. “That rule hasneverworked.”
“It will. Tonight’s the night,” he says, already pulling out a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses he fully intends to wearindoors. “We are the drama, babes.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
The butterflies are there—flickering just under my ribs—but they’requiet. Tamed. Because if tonight turns into a complete shit show… at least I’m not walking into it alone.
When we arrive at Asher’s penthouse, the party’s already in full swing. Music pulses from every angle, a low, seductive beat that vibrates through the soles of my heels and into my chest.
The rooftop patio spills over with people—model-gorgeous types with glowing cocktails in hand, voices pitched to be overheard, like everyone here is starring in their own highlight reel.
A waitress with a tray of bioluminescent drinks floats by. Maya declines the first two with a wrinkle of her nose, then caves on the third because it has “good” lighting.
“I swear,” she mutters, eyeing the green liquid like it might start doing tricks. “If this has glitter in it, I’m blaming Jeremy.”
“I hope it does,” I say, deadpan. “Nothing says class like gastrointestinal sparkle.”
Jeremy’s already halfway to the bar, promising to return with something “transformative.” We’ll see.
Maya gets swept away by a guy in a linen shirt who greets her like an old war buddy. And just like that—I’m alone.
I step onto the patio, letting the warm air wrap around me like silk. The scent hits first—chlorine, coconut, maybe rum, definitely citrus.
The pool glows under string lights like it knows it’s the main character. And overhead, the skyline of Manhattan glitters just beyond the railing, distant and unreachable.
