The Skyline Terrace waited above the city like an altar built for people who believed they had outgrown gravity. Sixty-eight floors up, the world below blurred into a sprawl of glass arteries and neon veins, LA humming like a restless beast. It wasn't the tallest tower, but it carried the kind of prestige that made height irrelevant.
The rooftop restaurant was members-only, invite-only, wealth-only, the place where the rich came to pretend they were invisible except to themselves.
Priya had rented out the entire thing.
I kept staring at the address she'd texted, trying to solve a puzzle that kept shifting shape in my hands.
I'd expected Madison to orchestrate the night. She was the sun around which all our chaos orbited, and celebrations were her battlefield of choice. But the message had arrived from Priya three days earlier.
Priya: Skyline Terrace. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you look like the god you think you are. This is my gift to you.
