Alta Sociedad

The gates of Laurier did not open for just anyone.

They opened for bloodlines.

They opened for money so old it had stopped being counted and started being remembered.

The Virelli estate had no address listed on any map. Officially, it did not exist. Unofficially, it had hosted senators, tech prophets, deposed royalty, and at least one pop icon who had wept into a crystal tumbler because even global fame could not purchase entry into certain circles. The Virellis did not chase relevance; relevance courted them.

Inside, the marble floors reflected chandeliers imported piece by piece from a dismantled Italian opera house. A string quartet played something written three centuries ago for a king who no longer had a country. The air smelled faintly of white orchids and money-the sterile, cold scent of generational power.

They were all arriving now.

The heirs with educations from places that required last names more than applications. The wives whose smiles launched luxury brands. The husbands who referred to governments as "partners." A venture capitalist whose net worth fluctuated more in an hour than most lives ever would. A media titan who owned three news networks and denied influencing any of them.

They greeted one another with kisses that never quite touched skin.