TRISTAN
The party was in full swing, with music pulsing through the air and laughter spilling from every corner. The ballroom was an epitome of extravagance, glittering chandeliers casting golden light on the polished marble floors. Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres, and the hum of animated conversations filled the room. It was the kind of event designed to impress, and judging by the faces of the guests, it was succeeding.
For me, though, it was just another event where my name was the headliner without needing to be on the marquee.
“Tristan!” A man in a sharp navy suit approached, his hand already extended. “Big fan. I’ve followed every game this season. Can’t wait to see you crush it in the playoffs.”
I shook his hand, a practised smile on
