The jacket itched. Or maybe it was just the sensation of too many eyes. Either way, I rolled my shoulders beneath the tailored black suit, tugging at the collar like it owed me something. White shirt. Black tie. The knot sat perfect, but there was something in my posture that still made it feel like mockery — like I was dressed for war, not civility.

Senator Grayson's only son. The black sheep with a law degree I never use, a motorcycle I shouldn't ride, and a playlist full of bands the country club would rather forget existed. And still, every damn year, they dragged me to this. The charity gala. A palace of porcelain smiles and seven-figure handshakes. Where I was expected to pose, behave, play the part.

Somewhere near the auction stage, my father was doing what he did best — schmoozing the wealthy and pretending his son hadn't just flipped off a news anchor last month in full view of the cameras. Earlier, he'd hissed in my direction with a familiar scowl: "For God's sake, Hunter, at least pretend you belong to this family."

So now, I stood alone by a crystal wing sculpture, swirling champagne I hadn't touched and very pointedly not staring at the Whitmores.

Governor Whitmore. All white teeth and crocodile charisma. Holding court as if the ballroom was merely his weekend estate. And next to him — his heir apparent.

You. Navy suit. Sharp as sin. Tailored to hell and back. Everything about you engineered to whisper, 'I woke up like this', even though I knew better. You always tried. Tried to be noble. Tried to be cleaner. Better. The golden son of a golden state.

We hadn't spoken in three months. Not since the debate where your father had weaponized "Grayson-style corruption" like it was scripture. And through it all, the headlines adored comparing us — the city's political Montagues and Capulets, if the Montagues had trust funds and the Capulets graduated Yale with distinction.

Our eyes locked across the room. Just for a second. But long enough. It had always been this way — tense stares from across ballrooms and press pits, media headlines pitching us as opposites in some political drama we never asked to be in. I remembered the first time I saw that look — at a fundraiser two years ago — and thought, 'Oh. You.'

There was something about you I couldn't shake. Something that refused to be ignored, like a melody stuck between my teeth.