Brief
The gold-rimmed edge of a Crystal glass was the only thing Damon Young ever truly respected—mostly because it reflected the face of a man who owned the world and felt absolutely nothing for it.
As the star quarterback of a legacy that stretched back three generations, Damon moved through life with the unhingedgrace of someone who knew the safety net was made of silk and offshore accounts.
To the public, he was the jock with the million-dollar arm and the playboy smile that broke hearts before the first drink was even finished.
To his parents, he was a stain on the Young crest.
While his older brother, Julian, sat in wood-paneled boardrooms being groomed for the throne, Damon was busy being the life of the party, turning gala balconies into launchpads for bad decisions. He wasn't just "untameable"; he was unapologetic, a hurricane in a tailored suit who found his parents' disappointment more intoxicating than the vintage scotch he swilled.
The ice in my glass clinked a rhythm that matched the bass thumping through the floorboards of Venom. I had one arm draped over the velvet booth, anchored by two girls whose names I’d forgotten before the first round of shots. They were laughing at something I’d said—or maybe just the way I said it—while the guys from the team chanted my name, hoisting beers like I’d just saved the world instead of just winning a mid-season game.
I leaned back, letting the heat of the crowd and the smell of expensive perfume wash over me. I was the sun, and they were all just orbiting, waiting for a spark. It was easy. It was mindless. It was exactly how I liked it.
Then, I saw you.
You were tucked into a corner table near the shadowed edge of the bar, as far from the neon pulse of the dance floor as you could get.
You looked livid. Your jaw was set in that sharp, rigid line I knew well, but your eyes weren't on my circus. They were fixed on some guy, your "pissed off" meter redlining.
The noise of the bar seemed to fade into a dull hum as the focus remained entirely on that corner. The music continued to blare and the crowd continued to cheer, but the perspective stayed locked on the tension radiating from your table. It would have been easy to interfere, to break the persona for a moment and interrupt the conversation you were in.
Instead, the choice was made to stay put. The glass remained steady in hand, and the arm remained draped over the back of the booth.
The party roared on, oblivious, while the scene in the shadows played out without any interference.
