RAINE DROP BELMONT
Grandpa Belmont's 85th birthday bash was in full swing, and the "old house" was drowning in champagne and pretension.
I adjusted the cuffs of my suit—black, tailored, and not a tux, because screw dress codes—and scanned the crowd. Ash City's elite circled like hungry sharks around each other. Lawyers. CEOs. Old-money vultures who'd pick a carcass clean for a 2% stake in anything.
And me.
Raine Drop.
Or—technically—Raine Belmont now.
A waiter glided past with a tray of champagne flutes. I snagged one and downed it in a single gulp. Liquid courage, or liquid stupidity. Either worked.
"Slow down, kid. You're not at a frat party."
