The Moreau Foundation's annual charity gala occupied the Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic, and Hao moved through it like it was a room he owned—yet couldn't leave.

  Not that he'd ever say so. Not that his face would show it. He'd been attending these events since he was old enough to wear a tailored tuxedo, and he'd learned early what mattered here: not sincerity, but control.

  "Smile," his mother had told him when he was twelve, adjusting his bow tie before pushing him toward a room full of strangers. "They're watching. They're always watching."

  She wasn't here tonight—Paris, or maybe Milan, Hao had stopped tracking her migrations years ago—but her advice echoed in his skull like a song he couldn't forget.

  Smile. Perform.

  His father stood at the far end of the ballroom, surrounded by men in suits that cost what most people made in a year. Antoine Moreau Sr., titan of West Coast real estate, shaking hands and trading lies with the ease of a man who'd forgotten any other way to communicate.

  Hao watched him for a moment, then looked away.

  "Champagne, sir?" came a voice from his left.

  He took a glass from the passing tray without acknowledging the server. The bubbles tasted like obligation.

  Around him, Seattle's elite swirled in careful choreography: tech executives and their trophy spouses, old money wearing concern like jewelry, young heirs like himself playing at adulthood while their trust funds did the heavy lifting. The cause—clean water, tonight—surfaced in speeches, brochures, and the practiced pauses between bids.

  At least the cause is real, Hao thought, surprising himself. At least the money goes somewhere.

  He picked up one of the glossy brochures from a table—water droplets on a child's face, a number printed beneath in a neat font.

  He read it twice.

  For a moment, the ballroom noise thinned, and something unfamiliar pressed behind his ribs.

  He set the brochure down like it was hot.

  And then he saw her.

  élise Beaumont stood near the ice sculpture, laughing at something another man had said. She wore deep blue, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck, and Hao felt the familiar pull that had been plaguing him for months now.

  She hadn't responded to his last four invitations.

  She'd declined his offer to fly her to Vancouver for dinner.

  She'd smiled politely when he'd sent flowers and never mentioned them again.

  I could buy this entire building, Hao thought, watching her. I could buy whatever she wanted. Why won't she—

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  But he knew why. That was the infuriating part. élise Beaumont wasn't impressed by money, wasn't swayed by status, wasn't interested in playing the games that made sense to everyone else in this room. She wanted something else.

  Something Hao couldn't purchase.

  He made his way toward her anyway, glass in hand, smile in place.

  "élise." He kissed her cheek, European-style, because it gave him an excuse to get close. "You look stunning."

  "Hao." Her smile was pleasant and completely impenetrable. "I didn't know you'd be here."

  "My father's foundation. Hard to avoid."

  "Ah." She glanced at the man beside her—older, distinguished, some kind of tech investor if Hao remembered correctly. "Have you met David? He's working on water filtration technology. Actual practical applications for the foundation's mission."

  "Fascinating." Hao shook the man's hand, smile fixed, attention already sliding back to élise. "I'd love to hear more sometime. But right now, I was hoping I could steal you for a dance."

  "I don't think so." élise's refusal was gentle, almost kind, which somehow made it worse. "I promised David we'd discuss his proposal. Another time?"

  There wouldn't be another time. They both knew it.

  Hao maintained his smile through sheer force of will. "Of course. Enjoy your evening."

  He retreated to the bar and ordered something stronger than champagne. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tried to remember the last time someone had said no and meant it.

  He watched élise lean closer to David—he spat the name in his mind. Attentive in a way she had never been with him.

  For a second, Hao imagined doing something he never did—walking back over and saying something honest.

  I'm sorry.

  The words snagged on pride and died there.

  The whiskey burned going down. He ordered another.

  Across the room, his father caught his eye and made a subtle gesture: Come here. Network. Be useful.

  Hao ignored him.

  The night dragged on. He talked to people he didn't care about, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, gathered business cards that would never be used. The performance, seamless and suffocating.

  Sometime around eleven, the first headache hit.

  Not like an ordinary headache. Something sharper—a pressure behind his eyes that made the lights too bright and the voices too loud. Hao blinked, and for half a second, the ballroom shifted.

  Different walls. Different light. The smell of incense and sweat instead of perfume and champagne.

  Then it was gone.

  He gripped the bar edge, heart racing, and told himself it was nothing. Stress. Too much whiskey. A migraine maybe? It's been a while.

  "Sir? Are you all right?"

  The bartender was looking at him strangely.

  "I'm fine." Hao straightened his jacket, smoothed his expression back into practiced neutrality. "Just a long night."

  But his hands were shaking slightly, and when he looked across the room, élise was gone—presumably left with the tech investor, the man who cared about water filtration and probably didn't know how to spell manipulation.

  Hao's father appeared at his elbow.

  "You're leaving early." It wasn't a question.

  "I have an early morning."

  "You don't have anything." His father's voice was quiet, calibrated to avoid eavesdroppers. "You haven't had anything since you dropped out of Wharton. You coast on my name and my money and occasionally show up to these events looking like you'd rather be anywhere else."

  "Would you prefer I pretend to care?"

  "I'd prefer you actually care." His father's eyes were cold. "About something. The business. The family. Your future."

  "My future is sitting in a trust fund, Father. We both know that."

  "Money doesn't last forever. Neither does my patience."

  They stared at each other for a moment—two men who shared blood and nothing else.

  "I'll work on it," Hao said finally.

  "See that you do." His father slid a business card into Hao's palm—heavy stock, embossed letters—like a command sealed in paper.

  His father walked away, already reaching for another handshake, another deal, another performance.

  Hao stood alone at the bar, touched his signet ring without thinking, and felt the headache pulse again behind his eyes.

  Different walls. Different light. A voice saying something he almost understood—

  On his way out, he passed an ice bucket full of melting champagne bottles. Hao looked down at the card in his hand—his father's name, his father's company, his future rendered in clean black type—then let it slip from his fingers.

  It disappeared into the cold foam without a sound.

  He left without saying goodbye to anyone.

  In the back of the car, wrapped in leather and silence, he pressed his palms against his eyes and wondered if he was losing his mind.

  The city slid past, all glass and ambition and empty promises.

  The driver said nothing.