The party wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
No strobes. No DJs yelling into the void. No red solo cups.
This wasn't college chaos. This was curated decadence—perched atop the Astra Hotel, where the air tasted like money and the chandeliers cost more than most people's homes.
Here, the elite didn't shout. They murmured. Laughed softly. Posed like they were born to be photographed and never tagged. The rooftop terrace was veiled in warm light and colder secrets, its marble bar stocked with liquor older than the guests.
It smelled like generational wealth and decisions that never faced consequences.
There were heirs here—of corporations, kingdoms, and quiet monopolies.
Some wore Patek Philippes. Some wore designer sneakers with fake modesty.
Some would eventually run the world. Others already did.
And all of them knew how to smile without showing their teeth.
---
Ethan McAllister strolled through the crowd like he was returning from intermission.
His presence hit like a warm, expensive breeze. People greeted him with too much familiarity and not enough eye contact.
"McAllister!" someone called out. "Still slumming it with the nerds?"
"Only the sexy ones," Ethan grinned.
And then came the inevitable question:
"Wait—who's that with you?"
Behind him, just a step back, was Nivrit Vashirayan.
Blue t-shirt, sleeves rolled. Fitted black jeans. Sneakers.
No name-brand flex. No jewelry. No curated mystery.
Just clean, calm, and there.
They glanced at him. Took in the glasses. The "probably an overachieving grad student" vibe.
Dismissed him just as quickly.
Polite smiles. The kind you give waitstaff and interns. Then they turned away.
Ethan felt it—tight in his chest, stupidly annoyed. He started to say something—something biting.
But Niv was already leaning in, resting a hand briefly on Ethan's shoulder as they stood at the bar.
"Don't," he said, voice low. "Fuck 'em. Not my type anyway."
Ethan blinked. Then broke into a grin.
One line. Just that. And somehow, the entire rooftop felt slightly less fake.
Slightly more bearable.
And far more fun.
Minutes later, Ethan spotted a group of insanely hot girls by the corner lounge and, true to form, gravitated like a missile.
Among them stood Jacob Caldwell — son of billionaire father and senator mother, the kind of man even Ethan didn't joke around with.
Jacob raised a glass in casual acknowledgment. They were cool, for now.
One of the girls beside him was his girlfriend, dressed in designer couture like it was her second skin.
But Niv's eyes slid past her to the girl next to her.
She didn't speak. She didn't smile.
She didn't have to.
She just stood there, sipping something clear and cold, her expression carved from ice.
The Ice Queen.
The kind of beautiful that wasn't accidental — it was deliberate. Timeless. Weaponized.
Eyes sharp. Posture perfect. Expression unreadable.
No one dared approach her.
Because everyone knew who she was — even if they never spoke it aloud.
She was Sera Marino, daughter of the biggest cartel leader in Mexico.
Rumors said her family didn't just run the eastern seaboard — they owned it.
She studied psychology at a university nearby, one just as prestigious as his.
"Who's he?"
The question came softly but suddenly — from one of the girls, a brunette with fire in her eyes and a tequila shot in her hand.
Her gaze was fixed across the room, where Niv stood by the bar, arms folded, talking to the bartender like they were old friends. His posture was casual, his outfit plain.
Not the kind of man who should stand out here.
And yet… he did.
Effortlessly.
The others turned to look.
Even Sera Marino, who hadn't reacted to anything all evening, glanced — just once — and then went back to her drink, eyes unreadable.
Jacob stiffened.
"That's just Niv," Ethan said, casually pouring himself a drink. "My best friend. Chill guy. You'd like him."
"He's funny," one of the girls added, recalling something from earlier. "Weirdly good at telling stories."
"Yeah," Ethan smirked. "He's got this thing. Like... you say three words, and he knows your entire Netflix history and unresolved childhood trauma."
That got a laugh.
And right on cue, Niv strolled over, hands in pockets, expression relaxed, gaze soft but perceptive. He scanned the group, not like a predator, but like a writer observing characters.
And then he smiled.
"So," he said, "what are we drinking, and whose personality are we blaming it on?"
The girls laughed immediately — not polite, forced laughs, but the kind that meant he'd hit the right note.
Niv launched into a story. Something about a failed blind date and a confused parrot that thought it was his therapist. His timing was perfect. His delivery smooth but dry, like he wasn't trying to be funny — he was just telling you the truth in a funny way.
Even Sera's lips twitched. Just once.
That was the moment Jacob cracked.
"So what do you do, Niv?" he asked, swirling his drink.
"Grad student," Niv replied easily. "Trying to make sense of chaos. You?"
"I'm in international policy. Kind of grew up around it. My mom's Senator Caldwell. You've probably heard of her."
"Sure," Niv said. "Loved her piece on diplomatic immunity. Real tearjerker."
A few snorts of laughter.
Jacob narrowed his eyes. "What about your family? What do they do?"
Ethan tensed.
"Not much," Niv said with a shrug. "Folks back in India. Books, tea, mild judgment, the occasional power outage. Pretty normal."
That got a few laughs—just enough to shift the spotlight.
But Jacob wasn't done. His tone tilted, just slightly, into that familiar smirk.
"So you're basically the diversity hire," he said, like he'd just cracked a code.
The laughter stopped.
Even the bartender froze.
Ethan's jaw clenched. He opened his mouth — and then stopped, because Niv raised a hand slightly.
"Jacob," Niv said softly. "I get it. You're trying to be funny. I respect that. But here's a tip—"
He took a step closer, his voice still warm, still calm.
"If you ever feel the need to bring up your parents in casual conversation… you might want to ask yourself how much of you is actually you."
Silence.
And then one of the girls gasped-laughed.
Another stifled a chuckle behind her drink.
Even Sera turned her head, just slightly, and for the first time all evening — looked directly at Niv.
Jacob flushed. His girlfriend elbowed him, hard.
"Don't be an ass, babe."
Ethan was grinning like he'd just watched a car crash in slow motion — and enjoyed every second.
Niv?
He just sipped his drink and looked off toward the dance floor like none of this ever happened.
Then the tension cracked like glass behind them.
"HEY!"