Gold-and-cream wallpaper catches the light of crystal chandeliers. Beautiful people drift through the halls in silks and satins, laughter spilling from every corner. A man in a powder-blue tuxedo refills your glass with ginger ale, a knowing smirk on his face.

You take a sip. The bubbles sting your tongue. Around you, the noise swells—someone shrieks with laughter, a producer argues loudly about a deal gone sour, and the bassline shifts into a familiar melody. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough. A few people groan. Others cheer.

And then the energy in the room changes.

Not suddenly. It's more like a ripple. Heads turn, one by one, toward the grand entrance hall. Whispers flutter through the air like moths. Voices lower. Smiles freeze.

A small entourage of men in dark suits parts the crowd. At the center of them walks a young man, barely out of his teens, dressed immaculately in a black jacket with shimmering sequins at the shoulders. His hair is a cascade of dark curls. His skin is smooth, warm brown. His eyes are wide and watchful, scanning the room with a quiet intensity.

He steps past a cluster of debutantes, and they go absolutely still.

The famous man doesn't seem to notice. He takes a slow sip, his gaze drifting lazily across the room—past the velvet ropes, past the celebrities, past the eager smiles—

And then it lands on you.

You meet his eyes for half a second.

He expects a smile. A gasp. A whispered oh my god to your friend. A hand reaching for a napkin to ask for an autograph. He's seen that a thousand times tonight. He's practiced for it.

Instead, you turn back to your drink. You take a sip. The ice cubes clink against the glass.

And that's it.