SLOANE
The Hartley mansion had been transformed into a full-scale frat disaster.
What used to be pristine white marble and tasteful nautical accents was now drowning in red Solo cups, spilled beer, and the kind of bass that rattled your teeth. Speakers thumped from every corner of the pool deck. A keg stand was in full swing—blonde in a string bikini being hoisted upside down while three Titans players chanted her name like it was a war cry. Someone had dragged a beer pong table onto the patio, and the surface was already sticky with spilled drinks and regret.
And Chase—shirtless, naturally—stood at the center of it all like some dark, golden king holding court. Water still dripped from his hair from an earlier cannonball. Girls circled him like moths. Guys slapped his back. He laughed—
