Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
We pile into two cars. Ozzy and Render’s because those are the only ones Juno wouldn’t recognize. The city flares neon as we snake toward downtown: marquis lights, river reflections, the Delphine rising like a crystal set piece. The entry is a circus—step-and-repeat banners, a DJ under a chrome arch, a wall of canned HOLO-BURST arranged in a pixelated skull. Influencers preen; the founding members glide through like wedding party royalty.
Render spots a lanyard table, and in a stealth-like move scoops up enough for all of us.
Game on.
“Remember,” I tell the team over the channel. “We’re not here to get content. We’re here to eavesdrop. Final Girl and I will peel off when the after party doors open. Meet at Stairwell C if anything goes sideways.”
“Copy,” Gage murmurs.
“Copy,” Ozzy echoes, already filming a “walk-and-talk” that looks real enough for any Instagram story.
The public launch is all flash: projected lightning, brand slogans, a hype video that pretends caffeine is a personality. The CEO, Van Benton—chin like a shovel—announces a partnership with a pro gamer, the crowd roars, champagne sprays. I watch the founding members instead: who they lean toward, who they avoid. Twice, a silver-haired VC in a dove-gray suit glances at the side doors, as if waiting for someone who’s late. Gracewood, maybe. My jaw tightens.
Juno sticks close, eyes alert, posture deceptively relaxed. When her gaze lands on a HOLO-BURST rep with a familiar smirk, she squeezes my forearm—a silent there, that one. I log the face.
When the velvet rope at Ballroom C parts, we drift with the herd. The theme shift is immediate: public razzle becomes private decadence. “Neon Noir” means black velvet couches under ultraviolet, servers in LED bowties carrying trays of liquid sugar, and a DJ in a half-mask spinning a remix that sounds like a migraine feels. The masks—half the room in them—turn the scene into a masquerade shot through a cyberpunk filter.
We split. Ozzy moves slowly toward the VIP bar. Gage loiters by a cluster of founders pretending to admire the ice sculpture. Render becomes a shadow on the balcony rail, his camera winking like a distant star. Knight positions himself at a service door, ready to slip where staff slip.
I keep Juno to my left, one hand hovering at the small of her back without touching, every sense tuned to her. She laughs once, too brightly, and I lean in.
Someone stops her, and I turn to see who.
“Juno, it’s been so long. How are you?” Etta Hoy’s voice is paper-thin. She doesn’t care how Juno’s doing.
Etta’s an influencer. She’s all big money and low views. However, she acts like she has fifty million followers, not fifty thousand.
“Etta, long time,” Juno smiles like they’re old friends.
“Fancy seeing you here.” She quirks a brow, and then glances my way. She takes in my mask and huffs out a short laugh. “I knew you always liked older men like your sister.”
At the mention of her sister, Juno stiffens beside me.
“Steady,” I murmur.
“Trying,” she says, and the word trembles.
Etta doesn’t notice Juno’s posture has inflated since she’s walked over. She’s too busy waving to other friends, and then she slowly drags her attention back to Juno. “I’d love to interview about… you know.”
My jaw tenses. But Juno’s a pro.
“Sure thing. I’ll DM you next week.” I can tell by the tremor in Juno’s voice that she has zero plans to message Etta. However Etta finds this answer acceptable and leans in for a quick hug, and then she’s off like she was never here.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She nods, once. “I’m fine.”
We orbit the room. Snippets of conversation drift:
“…we don’t need another compliance audit…”
“…the creator skew was worth the spend…”
“…Gracewood will eat the PR hit…”
“…five payments—no, that’s not what I said…”
Juno goes stiff at that last one. I turn. Two men in their forties—one in a cobalt suit, the other in black-on-black—stand half in shadow by a glowing art wall. Cobalt checks his phone and hisses, “I said re-bundle the five payments, not re-send the five payments. Do you speak English?”
My blood chills. I angle us closer, pretending to admire the art. Black-on-black lifts a hand, calming. “Relax, Valentino. We’ll consolidate through the shell like we used to. Benton’s too busy glad-handing streamers to notice.”
Valentino. Cobalt. I drill the name into my brain. Juno’s fingers find my hoodie cuff and tug. We both strain to hear more. Black-on-black lowers his voice. “Gracewood’s pushing for a Q2 clean slate. We just need to keep the loud ones quiet until then.”
“The loud ones,” Valentino sneers, “have funerals, apparently.”
Juno’s breath hitches with such violence I think she’ll lunge. I step in, my body a wall, and feel her entire frame shake. The mask lets me keep my voice steady even as fury shakes my bones.
“Not here,” I say in her ear. “Not now.”