From the penthouse balcony, the skyline stretched in all directions, the city glittering like scattered diamonds against the dark horizon. To most it would come off as enchanting or glamorous, but to him, who’d seen the same view countless times before, it was distant, cold, and untouchable. 

Jasper leaned against the polished obsidian railing, the chill of it biting through the pristine white sleeve of his tailored suit.

He looked perfect. He always did. That was the problem.

The suit clung to his frame in all the right ways, crisp, custom stitched, and undoubtedly expensive. His dark, walnut hair was neatly combed, his posture just relaxed enough to feign ease. But every breath felt a little too shallow. Every heartbeat a little too loud. Tonight, like most nights, he wished more than anything to be anywhere but here.

Inside the ballroom, laughter, polite and practiced, floated through the open doors behind him. The sound of political titans and sycophants congratulating each other on doing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Another gala. Another performance.

Jasper brought the flute to his lips, tilting it just enough to let the champagne brush his tongue. He didn’t bother to check the label, some obscenely expensive vintage bottle with a name half the guests couldn’t pronounce, not that they’d ever admit it. He imagined what would happen if he just tipped the whole thing back, chugged it like a frat boy in a stolen tux. The scandal. The gasps. The articles.

A smile pulled at his lips.

He didn’t do it, of course. He never did. Because every senator and their carefully manicured spouse had their eyes on him. Senator Sinclair’s golden boy. The prodigal son. The charming heir to a legacy built on glamour, money, and ruthless politics. One wrong move, one slip, and he wouldn’t just embarrass himself, he’d embarrass Vincent Sinclair. And that was a sin no amount of money could scrub clean.

He swallowed instead, slow and elegant. Like a prince in a glass tower. The champagne was dry. Soulless. Like everything else in this place.

His smile faded, replaced with the smooth, expressionless mask he’d perfected since he was twelve. Approachable and disarming. The kind of face that made people trust you, or want to be you, or both. Beneath it, he sighed for what had to be the thousandth time that evening, quiet, internal, invisible.

Another night in one of the many Sinclair homes, always spotless and heavy with expectation. Another cage with a view. Better than the estate, where the walls felt even tighter.

Jasper shifted his weight, his eyes scanning the marble floors veined with gold, where guests shimmered in gowns and tuxedos under chandeliers made of imported crystal. The air reeked of wealth and ambition. Every conversation a veiled transaction. Every laugh a calculated move.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Vincent Sinclair stood like a god among men.

His father was easy to spot, even in a room of tailored giants. Imposing, silver haired, with a smile that could sell war as peace. A legend in the world of politics and money. People flocked to him like moths to fire, and he welcomed them all with open arms, just close enough to burn.

Jasper’s jaw tightened.

He was supposed to be inside, smiling and mingling. But instead, he stood here, clinging to a flute of champagne and the illusion of privacy.

He was cut loose from his internal sulking by the sound of all too familiar footsteps approaching with purpose before he saw her.

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Scarlett DuPont, daughter of a wealthy defense contractor and socialite nightmare. She was a poised beauty who looked like money and moved with quiet confidence like she’d invented the word power. Her dress shimmered with sequins and threat.

“Jasper,” came a voice from behind him. It was smooth and sultry, like the satin red lipstick she always wore, perfectly offsetting her sun kissed skin. “Hiding again?”

Out of all the heirs set to inherit their parents’ billion dollar empires, Jasper had always had a soft spot for Scarlett, and not because they were set to marry after college. Despite being raised in wealth and power, she wasn’t greedy or self absorbed.

He would never see her as a romantic interest, but everyone said it made sense, a smart match, good families, the kind of union that would make headlines for all the right reasons. Marrying her would strengthen the legacy, as his father liked to say.

“I’m not hiding,” he replied, giving her a half smile over his shoulder. “Just breathing.”

She stepped beside him, raising her own glass. Her blonde, perfectly curled hair was pulled back into an elegant bun showing off her long slender neck and oversized diamond earrings. 

“Careful. That almost sounded rebellious.” She gave him a devious smile that would have most men on their knees. 

“Don’t tell my father. He might revoke my trust fund,” he playfully countered. 

Scarlett laughed, the sound high and precise. “Please. You are the trust fund.”

They stood in silence for a moment, knowing the unintentional weight her joke carried while watching the city pulse below them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d bonded too much over the years to feel anything less than trust and friendship. 

“Everyone’s waiting for you inside, you know," she said, voice lower now. “Vincent’s practically pacing.”

Jasper didn’t respond right away. He traced a finger along the rim of his glass, eyes distant.

“Do you ever wonder," he said quietly, “if all of this is just one long con? The speeches, the fundraisers, the photo ops. It’s like we’re dressing up a corpse and pretending it’s still breathing.”

Scarlett looked over at him while pondering for a moment. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was holding something back that her voice wouldn’t quite let out, but he didn’t push.

Then she leaned closer, her pleasant, floral perfume filling the distance between them. "I don’t wonder, darling. I know.” She gave him a sincere look then turned and walked back inside, heels clicking like time bombs against the white marble.

Jasper stayed on the balcony a moment longer. The wind had picked up, tugging gently at his collar, like the world outside was calling him, whispering secrets the penthouse could never know. He was just about to take another sip of his drink when he noticed movement on the terrace below.

It was a restricted floor meant for private guests only, and no one was supposed to be out there during the gala. But someone was. A figure in black. Not a tuxedo, not a gown. A hood, maybe, and for one brief second, it had looked like they were watching him. They moved fast, slipping behind a pillar, then faded into the edge of the terrace where the security cameras didn’t quite reach.

Jasper frowned. He turned back toward the room, scanning for the usual bodyguards. None were posted at the entrance tonight. Odd. His father never left things to chance.

He looked down again. It could’ve been nothing. Maybe all the stress he was under had him seeing things. Still, his eyes lingered on the terrace. He tried to think logically about it. No one in their right mind dared to be anywhere but exactly where Vincent Sinclair wanted them to be, but the flicker of unease didn’t fade.

He should tell someone. That’s what his father would expect. But Jasper didn’t move.

“You’re not here to think," his father had told him once, a hand firm on his shoulder. “You’re here to learn how to lead. The right way.”

Jasper’s stomach turned. The figure was gone now, but something in him pulled toward the terrace. Not duty. Not fear. Something else.

Curiosity. Defiance. The need to finally make a choice that was his.

His champagne suddenly tasted bitter. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking, some unconscious hope that something would finally happen to crack the polished monotony of his life. Whatever it was, the pressure in his chest was building fast, tight and rising, until it twisted into something sharp and nauseating.

Resolve.

He turned back toward the ballroom. Jasper knew the schedule. In ten minutes, Vincent would take the stage to deliver a speech about unity and economic reform, a speech Jasper had ghostwritten himself. He was supposed to stand at his father’s side, hand on his lapel, smiling like the good, obedient son everyone expected him to be.

He couldn’t do it. Not tonight. 

He was going to do something reckless for once, something that didn’t come with a press release, a boardroom agenda, or his father’s approval stamped all over it. For once, Jasper Sinclair wasn’t going to ask for permission.

With slow, measured steps, he set his drink down on the balcony ledge and walked back into the ballroom. Not toward the podium and not toward his father.

He was familiar enough with the building to know most of the exits, several blind spots, and how the security usually worked. He’d grown up around this place, under constant surveillance, every movement watched and judged. But he’d learned how to disappear in plain sight. It was a skill you picked up when your whole life was a spotlight.

That was the thing about being born into power, everyone assumed you wanted to be seen.

He slipped past the bar and through the service entrance tucked behind a curtain meant for staff. No one stopped him. No one noticed. Behind the door, the mood changed instantly. The sterile buzz of the service corridor replaced the wave of music. White walls. Stainless steel carts. No security cameras.

At the end of the hall, a narrow door led to a maintenance stairwell. He’d never used it before, but he’d seen the staff come through. It opened with a quiet click, and cold air rushed in, brushing over his skin like a warning.

There, just as he reached the terrace level, the door below him creaked shut. Jasper froze, his heart pounding. It should have been locked, but someone was definitely down there. He moved faster now, taking the last few steps in a rush.

The door swung easily under his hand, but the space was empty. No black figure. No sign of movement. Just wind and silence. He stepped out, scanning the shadows, then noticed something near the edge of the terrace wall. A single white playing card torn slightly at the corner. The King of Hearts. It hadn’t appeared there by accident. It had been placed.

Jasper stared at it, unease curling tight in his chest. This wasn’t a prank. And it wasn’t an accident. Whoever was out here had made sure they’d be noticed, and he had a sinking feeling it was meant for his eyes alone. He was still staring at the card when he heard the faintest shift in the air behind him, more sensed than heard. He turned sharply.

The figure was back.