The party was hitting that sweet spot where expensive champagne met weaponized sexual frustration, and everyone finally dropped the façade of social propriety like last season's Prada. Our circle wasn't just the center of attention—it was the black hole of the entire rooftop. Every other conversation faded into meaningless background noise compared to the raw voltage sparking between us.
"Ladies," Vivienne said, pulling out her phone with the mischievous smile of a woman who once burned her marriage papers and toasted marshmallows over them, "we absolutely cannot let this evening end without staying connected."
"Oh my God, yes," Anastasia practically purred. Of course she did—pharmaceutical heiress with more money than serotonin, desperate for stimulation that didn't come in pill form. "I refuse to go back to my boring life without access to this level of… chemistry."
