“My Friends Bet I Couldn’t Do Better Than You—I’m Just Proving Them Wrong,” She Said With A Smug Little Smile After I Caught Her Perched On Another Man’s Lap. I Didn’t Yell. I Didn’t Beg. I Just Looked At Her And Said, “Prove This Too.” Then I Took One Photo, Sent It To Her Parents With, “I Thought You Should See This,” And Walked Out. A Minute Later, My Phone Blew Up. She Was Calling In A Panic—Because Her Dad Had Already Opened The Message.

Her friend group was the embodiment of her vibe: Jared, Mark, Jessica, Lauren, a constellation of trust funds, vague influencer aspirations, and a constant, desperate need to be seen as winning. I was the odd piece, a software engineer who liked his job, his friends, and the quiet satisfaction of a problem solved. I was, in their parliament, “chill.” I realize now it was a synonym for boring, which is why the text that night set off a quiet alarm in my head.

Chloe — 8:47 p.m.: Hey, change of plans. The group decided on The Air. Meet us there.

Table under Jared’s name. Don’t be late. It’s popping off tonight.

The Air was a rooftop bar in the heart of the trendy district, famous for its views, its $20 cocktails, and its ruthless door policy. I’d been once for a work thing; it wasn’t my scene, but Chloe loved it because she loved the glittering cityscape backdrop for her selfies and the feeling of being inside the velvet rope. I parked my sensible sedan in a lot a few blocks away, the digital fee making me wince.

As I rode the elevator up to the rooftop, I smoothed down my simple button-down, feeling underdressed already, while the thump of bass grew louder with every floor. The doors opened into a wall of curated sound, clinking glass, and the shriek of laughter I recognized. The place was packed, and I wove through the crowd looking for their table, catching the back of Jessica’s head, the sharp edge of Lauren’s laugh, but the chairs in the main section were empty.

My eyes shifted to the roped-off VIP section to the left, a slightly elevated platform with plush loungers and a dedicated server. There they were—Jared holding court in the center, a bottle of vodka in an ice bucket on the table beside him. And on his lap, tucked under his arm, was Chloe.

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