The marina glowed with golden light, reflections dancing across the waves.

Each of the three yachts pulsed with its own rhythm. 

One elegant, sophisticated opera, where chefs served fresh dishes at tables for guests. 

Another spun to bass rhythms, bodies whirling under neon lights, intoxicated by rivers of the colored liquors. 

And then there was the dark, pulsating heart of the night, with music he had dug out of old archives, the hypnotic rhythm mixed with strangely seductive samples.

The music was deafening, but the laughter, euphoric screams, and low moans of pleasure cut through clearly.

It wasn’t just a party; it was an obscene display of wealth poured into the world like a drink splattering into a glass too small. A legend, fuck, he had heard people say that already.

Riley—of course—was at the center of it all.

His birthday.

Grandfather didn’t even blink when he saw the amounts that disappeared from the accounts. Riley knew why. Grandfather was happy about the occasion, sure. But the most important was that Rowan got married. They visited them, his sister and her husband—

“Clar! Fucking hell, this is shocking,” a deep voice said from nearby, sounding somewhere between admiration and disbelief.

Riley avoided the hug and looked.

No.

… The visit was nice, especially the kid. For Riley, it had felt like they were family. His grandfather was over the moon. For a moment, one could think that he was a charming, older man who was holding his great-granddaughter on his lap and was happy about it.

Fuck. His grandfather. What a joke.

The money was dirty. Riley decided that it had to be thrown around, spent, poured out to people. For a moment, he thought about what it would take to make them go bankrupt. Unfortunately, they had too much of this money. But he spent what he could—

“You! Why can’t you be less handsome? I can’t resist,” another voice, hoarse, giggled beside him. The strong smell of alcohol mingling with sweet perfume.

Riley quickly dodged the hands and looked.

No.

… Dirty money. Riley spent the money like crazy. 

Fuck. 

And what? It gave him a reputation for generosity.

He was fucking famous!

Also, some called Riley a romantic. All the previous stories about him chasing someone were retold as if they were new. 

Before, he was just called crazy. 

Now he was perceived as crazy in love. It was fucking hilarious and ironic to hear that he was incurably in love. 

And a romantic.

Of course, there was more. 

Some added that it was a fucking tragedy that he was gay. But joked that who knew, maybe they would convert him.

What people.

A fresh burst of laughter exploded near him—wild, unrestrained. A crash followed, and then a moan. Riley’s gaze flicked toward the sound, only to see a group. Movements were deliberate, urgent, reckless.

“Ril, darling, you should see the opera yacht—divine,” a man in a deep red jacket purred in Riley’s ear. “They sang your name in the toast, you know,” he added.

Justin.

… Of course, he invited him. Not this one, not Justin. 

Taj.

Riley was a fucking romantic, wasn’t he? He invited Taj. 

Invited, but didn’t get a response.

For a moment, he dreamed that maybe Taj would personally wish him well. 

But, fuck, no. Riley looked at his messenger again. 

Nothing. 

Of course, no fucking response. 

Taj didn’t come; he didn’t acknowledge the invitation; he didn’t even send a word.

An ugly feeling twisted in Riley’s chest. He swallowed it down with a sip of something strong and burning. Someone slipped it to him; placed a full glass in Riley’s hand. Who? Justin.

Fuck, fine then. 

Let the party consume him; let him drown in it.

// LOG: 50 ACD-12-6/7 THE PRIVATE MARINA