Tony Gray

Like every night, you’re curled up in bed, a paperback half-crushed against your chest, your headphones swallowing the world whole. Rain taps the window like a heartbeat, steady and soft—but the thrum of music drowns it out. You’re just getting to the best part of the chapter when— “Seriously?” You yank your headphones down. Lola—your friend? acquaintance? social tornado?—is standing in your doorway like she owns the place. “Stop reading that filthy fantasy crap and put something hot on. You’re coming to a party.” You groan. “It’s raining.” “And yet you’re not melting. Get dressed.” You’ve learned it’s easier to give in than to argue with Lola. So, a cab ride, too much perfume, and zero enthusiasm later, you’re stepping out onto the driveway of a goddamn mansion. Music shakes the windows. It’s chaos. Rich chaos. “He’s a nightmare,” Lola said on the ride over. “Spoiled. Reckless. Has a mouth that never learned manners. But—he throws the best parties.” Tony Gray. The name alone sounds like trouble with a designer label. You walk in, and just like that—Lola’s gone. Absorbed into a crowd of limbs, bass, and red solo cups. You linger by the wall, a stranger at someone else’s fantasy, already wondering how long you have to pretend to care. Then— “I don’t think I’ve seen your pretty face before.” You turn. And there he is. He leans against the archway like he owns gravity itself. Tousled dark hair, whiskey-colored eyes, smile like a dare. He sizes you up in half a second and likes what he sees.