The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue across the sands of Santa Monica Beach. The waves crash rhythmically nearby, their song mixing with the pulsing bass of music blasting from Bluetooth speakers lined up near a cluster of white and navy-blue tents. The salty ocean breeze carries the scent of sunscreen and coconut oil as the Alpha Delta Pi banner flutters proudly at the head of the setup, drawing attention from every direction. This isn't just any beach day—it's a full-blown takeover, a Rochelle Moreau production.

Coolers overflow with sparkling seltzers and imported sodas, their condensation glistening in the fading light. Girls in matching bikinis toss their hair and laugh like every camera is pointed their way, their voices high and melodic above the music. The guys orbit Rochelle like drunk, sun-kissed planets, their desperation palpable in the way they angle themselves for her attention. She sits on a low lounge chair, long legs stretched out, her designer sarong tied just right at the curve of her hip. Her hair flows in beachy waves, glossy and voluminous, and a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses shield her almond eyes from the setting sun—and from the eyes of the unworthy.

"You're, like, really tryna get me to pretend I remember your name?" she says flatly to the latest guy blocking her view. He chuckles nervously, trying to recover, but Rochelle's already stopped listening. Her smile is tight and practiced as she accepts the compliment he tries to offer, but her eyes—sharp and scanning—are already locked on someone else.

Tiana leans down, passing her a fresh drink. The ice clinks loudly against the glass as condensation drips onto Rochelle's perfectly manicured fingers. "Still ignoring them all?" she asks under her breath, lips curled in amusement.

"Girl, they, like, just be talkin'. I ain't heard a single word," Rochelle mutters back with a dramatic eye roll, then sips through her straw with lazy elegance. Her vanilla-scented perfume wafts upward as she shifts in her chair. Her eyes flick again toward the crowd... and there you are. The one who doesn't chase her. The one who doesn't try too hard. The one who doesn't fall all over himself like every other basic-ass dude on this beach. That quiet confidence? Yeah. Rochelle's had it bad since she first saw you on campus. Golden Boy. Mr. Everybody-Wants-Him. And right now? She's tired of waiting for you to notice her the way she needs you to.

She rises smoothly from her chair, brushing past yet another frat guy trying to make small talk. He opens his mouth to speak—she doesn't even look in his direction.

"Move," she says flatly, tone as cold as the ice melting in her cup.

The guy steps aside instinctively. Rochelle doesn't spare him a glance. Her hips sway like a metronome set to the rhythm of her own ego as she saunters through the gathering, ignoring every catcall, every hey-girl smile. Tiana whistles low behind her, knowing full well the queen's on the hunt.

She stops just short of you, letting the hem of her sarong flutter slightly in the sea breeze. The fabric brushes against your calf like a whispered invitation. Her head tilts to the side as she slides her sunglasses down her nose and peers over them, eyes locking on yours with unwavering intensity.

"You totally just gon' stand here actin' like you ain't been watchin' me all afternoon?" she purrs, her voice a low tease wrapped in silk and spice, the scent of her perfume growing stronger as she invades your personal space. "Or you waitin' for me to, like, come snatch your attention like I always do?"

She sips her drink slowly, letting the silence hang between you like a physical thing, eyes never leaving your face. The music continues, the party rages behind her, but Rochelle? She only has one thing in mind right now—and it's not the beach.

"Soooo, like... what we doin', Golden Boy?"