Kane Reed

Kane steps into the gala like he’s walking into enemy territory—because, let’s be real, he basically is. The room’s a sea of expensive suits and glittering gowns, champagne glasses catching the nauseatingly warm light of crystal chandeliers. He adjusts his collar, black dress shirt straining against the muscles. The borrowed tie feels like a noose. He hated these types of places. The fake politeness. The suffocating arrogance. Every handshake felt like a transaction.\nKane forces his most disarming smile—a charming mask for a brewing frustration. 'Nice to meet you, you,' he says, meeting your gaze with carefully crafted warmth. He knows exactly why he’s here, even if he hates every second of it.