Aria's POV
The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds as Celeste and I navigated the bustling streets, heels clicking against the pavement. The night air carried a faint tang of perfume, exhaust, and something almost electric—the kind of energy that makes you feel like something big is about to happen.
"Tonight, we forget the disaster that was your date," Celeste said, spinning in front of me like some kind of Broadway dancer. Her grin was infuriatingly infectious. "You are not sulking. You are living."
I rolled my eyes, adjusting the strap of my purse. Fine. Live a little. That sounded good. Exciting, even. I deserved it. After all, it wasn't every day a date ended with me storming out of the restaurant, heels clattering, dignity trailing behind like a sad little ribbon.
We slipped through the velvet ropes of a glittering party I thought was just another fancy, over-the-top soiree. But as soon as we entered, I realized something was off. Not wrong, exactly. Just… uninviting. The room was alive with chatter, but it hummed with the polite stiffness of people trying to enjoy themselves while wearing smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Gowns shimmered in every shade imaginable, tuxedos pressed to perfection, hair coiffed so meticulously it looked almost artificial. Everyone laughed at the right moment, nodded at the right person, sipped champagne as if it were an elixir for immortality. And yet… none of it was fun.
Celeste, sensing my growing dissatisfaction, leaned close, lowering her voice. "Told you. Rich folks don't know how to party. Too busy looking good to actually enjoy anything. They should've called in a marching band or something."
I chuckled, despite myself. "Maybe we just need to find the right vibe. Give it a little more time."
Her smirk was both mocking and knowing. "Or maybe we should've gone to that downtown club I suggested. Real music, real chaos, real… fun. You know, living."
I groaned. "Yeah, yeah. Still time to make this bearable."
And so we wandered, sampling the pretentious hors d'oeuvres, sipping sparkling drinks that tasted like liquid sugar, and watching the hosts flaunt their wealth with all the subtlety of a fireworks display in a library.
It was then I noticed the guests—oh, the guests.
There was a man in a velvet blazer, neon-green socks peeking from underneath, trying to dance with an air of reckless sophistication that fell hilariously short. Beside him, a woman in a silver gown that looked like it had been stolen from a sci-fi convention balanced a champagne flute while attempting an interpretive dance that resembled flailing more than elegance.
Celeste snorted. "Look at him. That's what wealthy desperation looks like."
I couldn't help but laugh. "And she thinks she's the queen of the dance floor. Someone should tell her it's just a Tuesday night."
We moved along, barely keeping our composure as the room overflowed with people whose outfits screamed look at me, but whose personalities whispered please ignore me.
"You know," Celeste said, nudging my arm, "I could write a thesis on the psychology of rich-party fashion disasters. This is prime material."
I smirked. "Go ahead. I'll take notes."
And then, just as I was about to suggest we finally leave, a voice cut through the hum of polite chatter and clinking glasses:
"Leaving so soon?"
I froze. Not because the voice was imposing—it was smooth, low, magnetic—but because it carried an air of confidence that instantly commanded attention.
We turned. A man stood there, perfectly poised, dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, eyes a rich brown that seemed to pierce right through me. Neither of us knew who he was. And judging by the way he looked at me, neither did he.
"Uh…" I began, startled, but quickly straightened. "Of course. The party… isn't exactly engaging."
He raised an eyebrow, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And I assume you host a lot of engaging parties?"
I blinked. "Tons," I replied, keeping my tone confident despite the flutter in my stomach.
His smirk widened. "Then maybe we should all take lessons from you."
"Maybe you should," I shot back, not missing a beat.
Celeste, sensing the shift and realizing she had become the perpetual third wheel, cleared her throat delicately. "I'll… go get more drinks." And with that, she slipped away, leaving us alone.
The man—he didn't even introduce himself—leaned slightly, tilting his head with amused curiosity. "So, you just mock the guests?"
I laughed, gesturing broadly. "Oh, absolutely. Look at them. Velvet jackets in neon, sequins that could be blinding, and hair so stiff it defies gravity. I mean, who taught that man how to dance?"
He followed my gaze, eyes flicking to the neon-socked dancer, then back at me. "And that's… entertaining?"
"More than the party," I said flatly, letting my sarcasm drip. "Honestly, this is the best part."
He chuckled, a low sound that made my chest tighten. "I see. You find amusement in the absurdity of the elite. Bold."
We wandered the party together, mocking, laughing, and sneaking judgmental glances at the ridiculous ensembles. There was the woman in a gold lamé dress trying to juggle champagne flutes like a circus act, the man in a three-piece suit paired with neon sneakers attempting to flirt with a woman who clearly didn't notice him, and the self-proclaimed DJ whose playlist made everyone grimace politely.
"Unbelievable," I said, covering my mouth to stifle a laugh. "Some of these people… they honestly think they're gods of sophistication. But really, they're just… tragic."
He nodded, eyes scanning the room with me. "And yet, they all pretend to care. Fascinating."
By the time we'd worked our way through mocking nearly every guest, I realized I hadn't asked the one thing I wanted to know.
"What's your name?" I finally asked, curiosity cutting through the fun.
He opened his mouth, about to answer, when a sharp clang of crystal cut through the music.
Champagne in hand, a tall, imposing man had taken the small stage at the far end of the room. "If I may have your attention!"
My stomach dropped. No. No, no, no.
Leonardo Cortez.
The man on the stage was Leonardo Cortez, patriarch of the family my father had despised for decades. He was hosting this—this ridiculous display of wealth and bad taste. And I was here, unknowingly crashing it.
I felt my mood shift instantly, the laughter dying in my throat. Rage and disbelief mixed with the lingering amusement of my evening, creating a strange, bitter cocktail.
The man beside me—my mystery mocker—noticed the change. "What's wrong?"
I jerked my head toward the stage. "That man… I… I hate him. And his entire household. My family and the Cortezes… we've been rivals for as long as I can remember."
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. Then he laughed.
I stared at him, utterly confused. "You're… laughing?"
"Relax," he said, smirk widening. "I think it's time you knew my full name."
And just like that, my world tilted. The man I'd spent the evening bickering with, mocking the pretentious rich and feeling surprisingly alive… was Damian Cortez, heir to my family's long-standing enemy.
The revelation struck me harder than any failed date ever could.