Levi sits up straighter. “And then there was the actor.”
I lift a brow. “Actor?”
“The sad one,” Levi says. “Always playing tortured geniuses. British. Recently divorced.”
Jamie presses a hand to her mouth. “No.”
“Yes,” Shannon says flatly. “And he was having the time of his life. Two women, one man, zero shame. I accidentally made eye contact and he winked.”
“I would have passed away,” I say.
“I considered it,” she replies. “But I powered through.”
“And the musician?” Jamie prompts.
“Oh my God,” Shannon groans. “The Velvet Riot guy.”
“That is not a real band,” I say automatically.
“It absolutely is,” Jamie insists. “One hit. Twelve years ago.”
“He was wearing eyeliner,” Shannon adds. “And a scarf. Inside.”
Levi grimaces. “Inside is criminal.”
“He kept saying fame is a prison,” Shannon continues, “while actively groping a stranger like it was community service.”
I wrap my hands around my mug. “So… anything goes.”
“Anything,” Levi confirms. “No one even blinked.”
Jamie nods. “Touching. Substances. People disappearing into private rooms and coming back… rearranged.”
Shannon smirks. “That actor definitely didn’t come back alone.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Did anyone look happy?” I ask.
They all hesitate.
“Not unhappy,” Jamie says slowly.
“Desperate,” Levi adds. “In very expensive ways.”
“Like they’re trying to feel something,” Shannon says.
That lands.
I lean back into the couch cushions, absorbing it — the excess, the permission, the way money smooths the edges off consequence until nothing feels forbidden anymore.
The elite don’t hide their hedonism there.
They curate it.
And for the first time since waking up in Derek’s bed, I’m quietly grateful I left when I did.
Grateful I wasn’t alone.
