By every pearl-clutching moral framework, every self-righteousethical compass, every sanctimonious code of conduct that people trot out the second someone else's life looks more interesting than theirs—I was, objectively, the worst man currently drawing breath.
Probably the worst man who'd ever drawn breath, if we're being honest, and honesty is my new kink.
More than half my of women was circulating through this party like high-end art pieces.
They'd shown up to support their sister Celeste—her big debut, collectors from fourteen countries pretending they understood curated genius while mostly just ogling women, the lighting and the champagne flutes.
Since we arrived, Celeste and I had traded maybe three polite glances and one smile that could've been mistaken for professional courtesy if you were legally blind.
