I don’t remember the moment I stopped being nervous. Maybe it was somewhere between the way Jack held the car door like it was sacred, or the way the valet said “Welcome back, Mr. Glasgow” with enough awe to make my throat tighten. But the second my heels hit the rooftop floor and I realized there was an actual string quartet playing Lana Del Rey like we were inside a live-action fever dream, I knew I was in trouble. Real trouble. Not the kind you flirt with in elevators... the kind you wear in red silk and end up questioning your entire existence over before dessert.
The rooftop looked like it had been pulled from a billionaire’s wet fantasy. There were candles shaped like teardrops, wine glasses that caught the light like gemstones, and flowers... God, the flowers. Roses spilled across
