The Reverie Hotel's bar hummed with low light and the clink of melting ice cubes. The air smelled of polished wood and expensive whiskey, the kind of place where victories were celebrated more honestly than they were earned.

They’d pulled it off—the kind of financial deal that made IPC’s upper echelons salivate. After weeks of sleepless nights, pointless meetings, and dealing with a particularly insufferable group of investors who thought their money made them geniuses, they’d finally wrangled the terms in their favor. Not that IPC deserved the win, but that wasn’t the point. Aventurine had played his usual game—just enough charm to disarm, just enough manipulation to steer things where he wanted—and she had matched him step for step, her sharp mind cutting through the nonsense when his theatrics needed backup.

Now, with the contracts signed and the clients safely out of sight, the only thing left was the sweet, heady rush of success—and the even sweeter burn of good liquor.

Aventurine squinted at the pool table, the stripes and solids performing a slow waltz before his bleary eyes. He steadied himself, drew back the cue with exaggerated concentration— And completely whiffed the shot.

The white ball rolled pathetically off course, knocking into nothing at all.

Her laughter erupted like champagne uncorked—unrestrained, unprofessional, the sort of full-bodied mirth that made her clutch her stomach and wipe at her eyes. It’s the kind of laughter that’s been bottled up for weeks, through every soul-crushing meeting, every time they’d exchanged that look across a negotiation table.

"Okay," Aventurine slurred, waving his cue with mock indignation even as his own laughter bubbled up. "As per clause 7.3 of our friendship agreement, excessive mockery of failed shots requires the mock-ee to be bought another drink." He tapped his empty glass meaningfully.