And as the golden carpet finally wrapped up, the second batch of guests began arriving.
Fashionably late.
Not asshole late.
There is a difference.
These were the kinds of people who arrived late not because they wanted attention, but because their status naturally demanded an entrance. The world simply moved around their schedules.
Unlike the first wave of celebrities, influencers, rising entrepreneurs, and socialites hungry for cameras and headlines, this set of guests operated differently.
These people did not chase fame.
Fame chased them.
They were the kind of individuals who stood at the very peak of high society, where wealth stopped being measured in millions and quietly began entering the terrifying territory of generational empires. Their net worths sat comfortably in the billions, and among their circles, that was considered the bare minimum entry fee.
Old money.
New money.
War-money.
Oil-money.
Tech-money.
The kind of money that could erase scandals before breakfast.
The kind of money that could make governments suddenly change their tone in emails.
And whether people liked admitting it or not, these were the people the first batch of attendees had truly come for.
Those young startup founders earlier on the carpet? The ones strutting around like they were contestants in a designer-clothed Hunger Games? Yeah. Them.
Most of them were not attending solely because of the charity.
The noble cause was nice, of course.
Very pretty.
Very marketable.
But the real reason they came was for this.
For proximity.
For opportunity.
For the microscopic chance of catching the attention of one of the titans quietly entering the venue tonight.
Because among business circles, the charity ball had developed something close to mythological status.
Stories circulated every year.
Rumors of struggling startups suddenly exploding into billion-dollar companies after one fortunate conversation at the ball. Small brands skyrocketing into global relevance overnight because some mysterious investor decided they were "interesting." CEOs going in desperate and walking out with enough funding to rewrite their futures entirely.
Some stories were exaggerated.
Some were probably fake.
But enough of them were true to make people keep coming back.
And at this point, it had become an open secret among attendees that "charity ball" was mostly just the polite public label for the event.
Because in reality?
The evening had evolved into one massive glorified episode of Shark Tank wrapped in diamonds, champagne, and couture.
A battlefield disguised as elegance.
Small and rising business owners circled the venue like nervous prey, all hoping to secure investments from the absolute crème de la crème of the business world. Every conversation carried hidden motives. Every handshake was a negotiation. Every smile came with invisible terms and conditions attached.
Even the air itself felt expensive.
And predatory.
Somewhere in the ballroom, fortunes were about to be made.
Somewhere else, fortunes were probably about to die.
And through all of it, the orchestra continued playing softly in the background like the soundtrack to capitalism itself.
****
And among those arriving with the second batch of guests were our beloved Foca and Luca.
Now Foca looked like he had accidentally wandered into the event on his way to buy artisanal bread and overpriced lavender soap at a countryside farmer's market.
While everyone else arrived dripping in sharp luxury and suffocating wealth, Foca somehow managed to combine comfort, cottagecore, and elegance into one singular aesthetic. His hair was tied up in his usual messy bun, looking completely unbothered, like this was just another Tuesday and not his brother and sister-in-law's wedding anniversary celebration disguised as a hyper-capitalist charity gala.
He wore a loose button-up shirt beneath a soft cardigan, paired with relaxed trousers and...
Loafers.
Actual loafers.
Not polished leather dress shoes handcrafted by some old Italian man named Giuseppe who charged thirty thousand dollars per stitch.
Nope.
Loafers.
Because that was simply how Foca operated. Comfort above all else. A thick scarf was bundled around his neck, and perched on his nose were his usual gilded-frame glasses, giving him the appearance of a handsome literature professor who would absolutely destroy you emotionally with one softly spoken sentence.
Some people might say he stuck out like a sore thumb. That he wasn't respecting the vibe of the event.
To which Foca, beloved younger brother of the man responsible for this entire extravaganza, would probably respond with:
"Mm. That sounds unfortunate for you."
But, like, with more elegance and emotional damage somehow packed into it.
Standing beside him was Luca, looking equally comfortable and offensively attractive.
The man wore a simple button-up shirt with the first three buttons left open, casually revealing enough of his chest to make entire bloodlines lose focus.
Listen.
LISTEN.
The pectoral cleavage was there.
Existing.
Menacingly.
Looking so unfairly perfect that it triggered the primal urge to drag your tongue across it just to see what would happen.
ARGH. NO.
Bad author. BAD.
Down. Sit. Drink water immediately.
We are maintaining wholesome vibes tonight. Respectfully. Classily. With dignity.
...
Anyway.
Luca paired the shirt with fitted trousers that honestly deserved acting awards at this point because the way they enhanced his ass-ets felt less like fashion and more like a coordinated attack on public decency.
Them buns were looking dangerously premium.
Aggressively smacks self with a rolled-up newspaper.
ENOUGH.
Hydrate yourself, you thirsty little creature.
My sincerest apologies for these brief interruptions. You all know how I get. Love y'all 😘
Now then.
Back to Luca.
His hair was styled in that perfectly messy way that probably took an hour to achieve. Around his neck rested a simple gold chain with a small cross pendant, something he never took off.
Ever since Foca gave it to him.
It had been Foca's very first birthday gift after they became friends, and Luca treasured it like it hung the stars themselves around his neck. And yes, before anyone asks, it was real gold. Foca might dress like a comfy bookstore owner, but the man still came from "our family owns buildings" money.
And that was Luca.
Looking delicious as always.
And yes, I will continue spreading Luca propaganda until the day I perish, even if the man only has eyes for Foca.
Because appreciating a work of art from afar is healthy and beautiful.
Probably.
****
And of course, we have to talk about Queen Tuesday herself.
Her Majesty arrived, and she arrived hard.
The woman stepped out wearing a silk cream dress that hugged her body so perfectly it honestly deserved its own standing ovation. The design itself was simple, but that was exactly what made it lethal. Elegant in the effortless kind of way rich people and dangerously pretty people somehow master naturally.
It almost looked like a luxurious nightgown.
But make it high fashion.
And also something you could absolutely wear while dramatically sipping wine on a balcony at 2 AM after ruining a billionaire emotionally.
The creamy silk against her deep ebony skin created the kind of contrast artists would probably cry over. Yin and yang. Soft and striking. Pure perfection.
Her makeup remained light and natural, enhancing rather than hiding. And her hair?
All hers.
No wigs.
No lace fronts.
And definitely no emergency lace backup hiding in the trenches.
Just natural beauty from head to toe, and the confidence to carry it effortlessly.
As the three best friends and co-founders of Bread Music made their way toward the venue, Tuesday glanced around at the crowd and snorted.
"Erbody and they momma in this bitch."
"Well," Luca replied casually, hands in his pockets, "everyone wants a little piece of that bag."
Foca sighed beside them, adjusting the scarf around his neck.
"I can practically smell the greed leaking out of this place," he muttered. "And we're not even inside yet."
"You know what they say," Luca shrugged. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Some of these upstart companies are really desperate."
Tuesday scrunched her nose.
"Erbody and they momma in this bitch, and they ready to sell they souls too."
And honestly?
She was not wrong.
Unlike most people attending tonight, Foca and, by extension, Luca and Tuesday, had the privilege of never having to claw their way into high society. Foca had been born into it. Luca and Tuesday had been pulled into those circles naturally through proximity, success, and years beside him.
But even then, they understood.
Because for some people here tonight, this was not just networking.
This was survival.
One good investor could change an entire bloodline.
One conversation could drag a company out of debt and launch it into the stratosphere.
Can they really blame people for being desperate?
Not really.
It was just sad.
Because once upon a time, the Sparrow Charity Ball had truly been about charity. About raising money for meaningful causes.
Now?
Everything felt twisted.
Like somewhere along the way, greed quietly slipped into the ballroom wearing a tailored suit and never left.
And nobody even knew exactly when it happened.
As the three continued walking, a couple appeared a short distance ahead of them.
Tuesday's eyes immediately locked onto the man first.
And based purely on his back alone, the woman was already spiritually ascending.
"Ooooh, he fine as fuck," she whispered discreetly, low enough that only Luca and Foca could hear.
"T, behave," Luca muttered, though he was already laughing.
"What?" Tuesday shrugged unapologetically. "I can appreciate a fine ass from afar. God gave me eyes for a reason."
Luca shook his head, chuckling to himself because honestly?
The queen was spitting facts.
Foca smiled faintly at their usual banter.
Then suddenly stopped walking.
Completely.
Like somebody had hit pause on his entire body.
His eyes widened slightly.
Breath caught.
Too stunned to speak.
The abrupt halt immediately made Luca and Tuesday turn toward him.
Seeing the expression on his face, their amusement vanished instantly.
"Boo boo… you good?" Tuesday asked carefully.
But Foca did not answer.
He simply stared ahead, frozen in place.
Luca and Tuesday exchanged a glance before slowly turning to see what had caused such an unnatural reaction.
And then both of them froze too.
Because standing beside the man Tuesday had been admiring moments ago, her arm hooked possessively around his, chest pressed against him with shameless familiarity, was none other than the woman who had shattered Foca's heart beyond repair.
Hailey Gonzalez.
The wicked bitch of the west herself.
Not just the woman who broke his heart.
No.
The woman who completely destroyed his ability to feel romantic love afterward.
The woman he caught cheating on him in her university dorm room.
The memory still lived inside him like broken glass buried beneath skin.
And what made the situation even more shocking was the fact that Hailey was supposed to be married.
To Maxim.
Yes, that Maxim.
The same unfortunate soul Hyouka once tricked into drinking champagne laced with enough laxatives to send him into gastrointestinal warfare in the middle of an expensive fine dining restaurant.
That Maxim.
Except...
That was not the man standing beside her now.
And judging by how closely she clung to him, this relationship looked far more intimate than "just friends."
At this point, she was practically dry humping the poor man's arm in public.
Subtlety truly died screaming tonight.
****
And seeing her standing there like nothing had happened made both Luca and Tuesday's blood boil.
But Luca?
Luca was absolutely seething.
"AW HELL TO THE NAW!" Tuesday blurted out before she could stop herself, immediately causing the couple to turn toward them.
The moment Hailey's eyes landed on Foca, Luca instantly stepped in front of him on instinct, shielding him from her like a human barricade.
Like he physically could not stand the idea of her looking at Foca for another second longer.
Seeing Luca and Tuesday glaring at her with enough hostility to qualify as attempted murder, Hailey merely raised a perfectly sculpted brow before scoffing.
"How are uneducated people invited to an event like this?" she said coldly.
The man beside her glanced at the trio with equal disdain.
"Just ignore them, babe," he said lazily. "Stupid people will always act like that."
Hailey sighed dramatically.
"You're right. Let's go before their stupidity becomes contagious."
And just like that, the two walked away as if they had not just reopened years of trauma in under thirty seconds.
Tuesday stared after them in complete disbelief.
"Oh no she fucking didn't."
"Fuck this," Luca snapped immediately, fury dripping from every syllable. "She's asking for it."
And he meant it too.
Because at that moment, Luca genuinely looked ready to abandon peace, love, emotional growth, and several laws simultaneously.
The urge to march over there and introduce Hailey's face to the pavement was becoming increasingly tempting.
Not because of the insults.
Not even because of the attitude.
But because of Foca.
Because Luca had watched firsthand what Hailey did to him.
He had watched Foca slowly stop believing in love.
Watched him smile less.
Trust less.
Feel less.
And Luca hated her for it.
Hated her for hurting someone so gentle so deeply that the damage still lingered years later like a ghost hiding beneath skin.
As Luca moved to step forward, fully prepared to make catastrophically poor decisions, a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist.
Firm.
Shaking slightly.
Luca turned immediately.
Foca.
His fingers clutched Luca's hand so tightly his knuckles had gone white beneath the pressure.
"Please… don't."
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
And underneath it sat something far worse than anger.
Pain.
Raw and exhausted and painfully human.
That alone nearly sent Luca into full caveman protective mode.
Like his brain genuinely short-circuited into:
Protect Foca. Destroy threat. Return to cave.
Instead, Luca swallowed the rage clawing up his throat and turned his hand, intertwining their fingers carefully.
A silent promise.
I'm here.
I've got you.
Always.
For a moment, Foca simply stood there holding onto him like he was trying not to drift away completely.
Then after a few long seconds, he finally took a shaky breath.
"Let's go," Foca said quietly.
And he started walking again.
But he never let go of Luca's hand.
Which, to Luca, felt like both the smallest and biggest victory in the world.
Because Foca was reaching back.
Even just a little.
And Luca would treasure every inch of trust Foca gave him like it was sacred.
At the same time though?
Oh, Luca was still mentally planning Hailey's downfall.
Expeditiously.
The three continued walking toward the venue together, Luca holding tightly onto Foca's hand while Tuesday looped her arm around Foca's other side protectively.
A silent little fortress around him.
And though Foca did not say it aloud, he appreciated it more than either of them realized.
The night was still very young.
But chaos had already clocked in for work.