The next morning, Fred woke up to an expensive white envelope slipped under his door.
Gold lettering.
Wax seal with a lion crest.
Inside:
> "You are cordially invited to the exclusive White Pearl Yacht Party.
Dress Code: Elite.
Location: Pier 9.
Arrival: 8 PM sharp.
Fail to attend = Blacklisted."
Fred's stomach twisted.
He had no money for a proper suit.
No luxury watch.
No shining car to arrive in.
But he had no choice.
Layla had made that very clear last night:
You swim with the sharks, or you drown alone.
---
By noon, Fred was sitting stiffly in a backroom of Suits & Kings, the most expensive boutique in town.
Layla had sent him there with a single text:
> "All expenses paid. Just look good. I have plans for you."
The tailor, Mr. Vincent — an old man with silver hair, sharp cheekbones, and judging eyes — measured Fred in silence.
Fred stared at himself in the mirror:
Dark brown eyes, heavy with exhaustion.
Short, messy black hair.
Lean body, slightly muscled from years of odd jobs, yet still carrying the look of someone who had known too much hunger.
Skin pale under the fluorescent lights.
Mr. Vincent sighed dramatically and clicked his tongue.
> "Poor boy. No polish. No presence. No charisma. But I can fix you."
Hours later, Fred stepped out:
Midnight black tuxedo hugging his frame perfectly.
Blood-red tie.
Cufflinks shaped like tiny skulls.
Black leather shoes shining like mirrors.
He looked like he belonged to the elite.
But inside?
He still felt like a fraud.
A ghost wrapped in silk.
---
At exactly 8 PM, Fred arrived at Pier 9.
The White Pearl yacht floated like a monster from a rich man's dream:
Decks lined with fairy lights.
Pools of champagne.
Girls in glittering dresses laughing too loudly.
Boys in designer suits snorting powder in the open.
Music thundering so hard the ocean itself seemed to vibrate.
Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys — all lined the private pier, their customized plates flashing:
K1NG, H3IRESS, B1LLY, PR1NCE, GODDESS.
Fred stepped onto the yacht.
Immediately, heads turned.
Layla Monroe, dressed in a silver dress that clung to her curves like sin itself, sauntered over and looped her arm through his.
> "Smile, darling," she whispered.
"Tonight, you're mine."
Fred obeyed.
Because what choice did he have?
---
The night spiraled quickly:
A "truth or dare" game that turned into public strip shows.
A secret room where deals were sealed with blood pacts.
A girl — barely 17 — vomiting over the side, sobbing because her billionaire "sponsor" had abandoned her after getting her pregnant.
Fred wanted to leave.
Every fiber in his body screamed for it.
But when he tried, Layla's nails dug into his wrist.
> "Leave, and your life is over."
So he stayed.
Drank cheap tasting champagne from expensive glasses.
Danced under neon lights he hated.
Laughed at jokes he didn't find funny.
A puppet in silk strings.
---
At 2 AM, a fight broke out.
Sebastian Holt — the Senator's son — cornered Fred near the yacht's bar.
Sebastian was everything Fred wasn't:
21 years old.
Blond hair slicked back.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a Rolex that cost more than Fred's entire life.
He sneered.
> "So this is the famous charity case. Layla's new toy."
Fred said nothing.
Sebastian stepped closer.
Too close.
> "Listen, gutter trash. I don't know how you slithered into our world, but if you think for one second you belong here, you're even dumber than you look."
Before Fred could move, Sebastian shoved him hard.
Fred stumbled, nearly hitting the bar.
Eyes turned.
Phones lifted.
Someone started recording.
Sebastian grinned.
> "Run home to your rats, little boy."
Fred's fists clenched.
His heart thundered.
But he remembered Layla's warning.
One mistake. One scandal. He was finished.
He swallowed his pride.
Lowered his eyes.
And walked away.
The laughter that followed him was louder than the music.
---
Fred escaped to the upper deck.
The wind slapped his face.
The stars mocked him.
He leaned over the railing, breathing hard, wishing he could jump.
Just vanish.
Suddenly, a voice behind him:
> "Hey... you okay?"
Fred turned.
It was Ivy Callahan, 18 — ranked #3 most beautiful girl on campus:
Chestnut hair falling in waves.
Soft green eyes.
Petite, fragile-looking — but something fierce burned behind her gaze.
She wore a simple black dress, not dripping in jewels like the others.
Real.
Raw.
Fred nodded stiffly.
> "I'm fine."
Ivy leaned next to him, gazing out at the endless ocean.
> "You're lying," she said quietly.
Fred swallowed.
No one had ever said that to him.
Not like that.
She smiled sadly.
> "We all are. Here. In this... circus."
For the first time that night, Fred's chest loosened slightly.
But he said nothing.
Because if he spoke, he might cry.
And he had promised himself never to cry in front of strangers again.
---
Below deck, Layla sat at the VIP table, legs crossed, swirling her drink.
Across from her, Maximillian Cross — CEO of CrossTech, 43 years old, billionaire — smirked.
> "You're playing a dangerous game, little Layla," he murmured.
"That boy? He's a ticking bomb."
Layla's lips curled.
> "Bombs are useful, Max. You just have to know when to light the fuse."
They clinked glasses.
Fred Kane was a pawn.
And soon... he would either make them rich.
Or die trying.
---