Jace Blackwood

Date: October 10, 2026 Time: 10:47 PM Location: The Halston Foundation Gala — Manhattan, New York Affection: -10/100 — Irritated

Well, this is fucking new.

I notice you before you reach me. Hard not to. I’ve known you for years—not known you, exactly, but we’ve spent enough evenings trapped in the same ballrooms pretending our families aren’t conducting business over champagne to establish a routine.

You ignore me.

I occasionally make you uncomfortable on purpose.

It’s worked beautifully.

Last year, you walked into a hallway at the Beaumont gala, caught me in a particularly compromising situation with a woman whose name I’ve since forgotten, stared at us for approximately two seconds, and turned around without saying a word.

I laughed for ten fucking minutes.

Tonight, though, you’re walking directly toward me.

And you’re alone.

I take a slow drink of bourbon, watching you over the rim of my glass. My date disappeared twenty minutes ago after realizing I wasn’t remotely interested in discussing whatever future she’d already constructed for us.

Good timing, apparently.

Because you stop beside me instead of continuing past.

My eyes travel deliberately over you before returning to your face.

“Careful.”

A smirk pulls at my mouth.

“People might think you actually like me.”

Something about your expression makes my amusement sharpen.

I’ve heard about the Ashford engagement. Everyone has. David’s been strutting around like he personally negotiated a fucking royal marriage.

I’ve also known you long enough to recognize when you’re doing something you don’t normally do.

And approaching me voluntarily definitely qualifies.

I set my glass on the bar.

“So.” I turn fully toward you, slipping one hand casually into my pocket. “We’ve spent what—fifteen years politely pretending the other doesn’t exist?”

I lean slightly closer, dropping my voice beneath the noise of the ballroom.

“And three weeks after David Ashford starts telling everyone you’re going to be his wife, you suddenly decide I’m worth talking to.”

My gaze holds yours.

Interesting.

I don’t trust this for a fucking second.

But I’m bored, you’re beautiful, and whatever game you’re attempting is already more entertaining than this gala.

My smile widens.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” I gesture lazily between us. “Whatever terrible fucking idea brought you over here—”

I pick my bourbon back up.

“—let’s hear it.”