The chandelier sparkled like frost, its thousand crystal facets catching the dim, golden light of the ballroom. Milo Fontaine stood at the edge of the crowd, his tailored black suit fitting him like armor. Around him, the city's elite mingled with manufactured smiles, their laughter tinkling like the champagne flutes they cradled. He swirled his whiskey, taking another slow sip, hoping the amber liquid would dull the sharp edge of his growing ennui.
These events were always the same—plastic people discussing plastic problems. Who landed the latest merger? Who bought the newest mansion? Who had the most enviable guest list for their upcoming gala? Milo could answer all of these questions if he wanted to. Hell, he could buy their problems outright if he cared enough to. But as he glanced at the sea of glittering dresses and expensive suits, he felt only exhaustion.
"Mr. Fontaine," came a simpering voice from his left. A woman in her mid-40s, dripping with diamonds, sidled up to him. "Your foundation's work with the city's youth is just incredible. You must let me host a fundraiser for you sometime."
Milo forced a polite smile. "That's kind of you, Mrs. Danvers. My assistant will be in touch."
She beamed, no doubt already planning the social clout she'd gain from associating with his name. Milo excused himself and slipped through the crowd, heading toward the balcony. He needed air.
The city stretched before him in a cold, steel sprawl. Lights blinked like fireflies in the darkness, but even this view felt hollow. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing, the sharp tang of smoke filling his lungs. This wasn't how he thought his life would feel at thirty-three—empty, aimless, and so very alone.
As the clock struck eleven, Milo decided he'd had enough. He crushed the cigarette beneath his polished shoe and descended the stairs to the ground floor, slipping out a side exit. His driver was likely waiting, but Milo wasn't ready to go home. The silence of his penthouse felt suffocating tonight.
The city streets were alive with noise and motion. Couples laughed as they stumbled out of bars, and street performers entertained small crowds. Milo walked aimlessly, hands in his pockets, until the muffled thump of bass caught his attention. He followed the sound, curiosity piqued, until he found himself standing outside a dingy underground club. The neon sign above the door read The Velvet Room in flickering red letters.
Something about it pulled him in.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. The crowd was young and eclectic—some draped in leather and studs, others in neon colors and glitter. Milo immediately felt out of place in his tailored suit, but no one seemed to notice him. All eyes were on the small stage at the back of the room.
And that was when he saw him.
Eli.
The music pulsed, low and hypnotic, as Eli moved. His body seemed to defy gravity, each step and spin fluid yet precise. He wore a sheer black top that clung to his lithe frame, paired with ripped jeans and boots that sparkled under the dim lights. His face was a canvas of sharp cheekbones and expressive eyes, framed by soft curls that caught the stage lights like a halo.
Milo couldn't look away.
Eli danced like he was pouring his soul onto the floor, each movement raw and unfiltered. The audience cheered, but Milo felt like he was witnessing something far more intimate—a silent confession, a battle, a triumph.
As the song ended, Eli froze in a final dramatic pose, his chest heaving. The crowd erupted in applause, whistles and shouts echoing through the room. Eli offered a small, almost shy smile before disappearing backstage.
Milo found himself moving toward the bar without thinking. He ordered another whiskey, his mind racing. Who was this man? How could someone command a room like that, yet seem so vulnerable at the same time?
"Never seen you here before," the bartender said as he handed Milo his drink.
"First time," Milo replied, his gaze flicking toward the stage.
"You're here for Eli, aren't you?" The bartender smirked knowingly. "Most people are."
"Is he… always like that?" Milo asked.
The bartender chuckled. "Eli? Yeah, he's the heart of this place. But don't get any ideas—he's not the type to fall for a suit."
Milo frowned, unsure whether to feel amused or insulted. "I just want to talk to him."
"Good luck," the bartender said with a shrug.
Milo waited until the crowd began to thin, nursing his drink and watching as the other performers packed up. When Eli finally emerged from backstage, he looked different—smaller, somehow, without the stage lights and music. He wore an oversized hoodie, his hair tousled, and carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Milo approached cautiously. "Excuse me, Eli?"
Eli turned, his dark eyes narrowing as they swept over Milo. "Who's asking?"
"Milo Fontaine." He extended a hand, but Eli didn't take it. "Your performance was… incredible."
Eli raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, Mr. Fontaine. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Wait," Milo said quickly. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Eli's lips quirked into a wry smile. "I don't think you can afford me, Mr. Fontaine."
Milo blinked, caught off guard. "I wasn't—"
"Relax," Eli said, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. "I'm just messing with you. But no, I don't need a drink."
Milo hesitated, then pulled a business card from his pocket. "If you ever want to talk… or need anything, call me."
Eli took the card, glanced at it, and then met Milo's gaze. "What makes you think I need anything?"
Milo had no answer.
Eli gave a small, almost pitying smile before tucking the card into his pocket. "Goodnight, Mr. Fontaine."
As Eli walked away, Milo felt a strange ache in his chest—a yearning he hadn't felt in years. He watched Eli disappear into the night, his heart pounding with a mix of frustration and fascination.
For the first time in a long time, Milo wanted something he couldn't buy.