Ice and Glass

The rooftop of the Moreau Tower glittered like a jewel box under the Los Angeles night sky. Strings of lights curved overhead, chandeliers hung in crystal cages, and every glass in the room shimmered with champagne the color of gold. It was the sort of party where everything felt rehearsed: the laughter, the music, even the clink of glasses. Everything except the people who didn’t quite belong.

You weren’t sure why you’d come. An invitation had arrived, embossed and gleaming, its edges edged in silver foil. It wasn’t really a request—it was the kind of thing you couldn’t say no to without raising eyebrows. Jean-Paul Moreau’s gala was as much a show of power as it was a social gathering. And Jean-Paul, with his empire stitched into every skyline, was not a man people said no to.

So you stood near the edge of the rooftop, half-hidden behind a column dressed in white roses, nursing a drink you hadn’t touched. Your dress felt too plain, your posture too stiff. Around you, people moved in effortless rhythm—high heels clicking, laughter spilling, deals whispered behind fans of crystal. You felt like a shadow among diamonds.

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