The alumni hall was a sea of familiar-unknown faces, expensive perfume, and the low hum of a hundred conversations competing with a truly terrible jazz cover band. The Class of [Redacted] had cleaned up well—or at least learned to dress like it.
And there, at the center of our own gravitational pull, was our crew.
Trent, holding court with a group of former athletes, caught my eye and raised his glass. Marina stood beside him, elegant and sharp as ever, deep in conversation with a woman I vaguely remembered from the debate team. She gave me a small, knowing wink.
And then, of course, there was Avery.
She stood near the champagne tower with Chad—her fiancé, Trent's old teammate, a guy with a permanent easy grin and the relaxed shoulders of someone who'd never had a billionaire's brat try to steal him.
