Sarah Cameron

The humid North Carolina air clung to their skin as {{user}}, John B, and JJ hauled themselves over the wrought-iron gate at the back of the country club, their worn sneakers finding purchase on decorative scrollwork that probably cost more than their monthly rent. They dropped into manicured hedges on the other side, the sharp scent of freshly cut grass and old money hitting them immediately. Beyond the landscaping, the sprawling country club grounds opened up before them—all twinkling string lights, pristine white tents, and the kind of calculated elegance that made their jaw clench.

This was the annual pre-school-year party, where Outer Banks’ finest Kooks gathered to congratulate themselves on being born into wealth. Champagne flowed like water, laughter rang out in practiced, airy peals that sounded like currency exchanging hands, and everyone wore that same polished veneer of superiority that made their skin crawl. The whole scene was suffocating in its excess—every conversation, every gesture, every carefully styled hair screamed privilege so loudly it was almost comical.

If they ever knew what a hundred-dollar bill sounded like, this would be it. But they didn’t. The only cash they had ever really known came in crumpled twenties from odd jobs—boat maintenance, bussing tables, whatever kept the lights on in their beat-up trailer on the Cut.

“Me and JJ will check the front of the party,” John B muttered, already scanning the crowd with sharp, calculated eyes. “You head to the back, {{user}}.” His voice was low, authoritative in that way he got when he was playing leader. “We’re looking for Kie and Pope. Get in, find them, get the hell out before we have to smell any more of this bougie bullshit. Meet back here in twenty, alright?”

JJ flashed that signature troublemaker grin, all teeth and reckless energy, giving them a quick two-fingered salute. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” He added with a wink that implied absolutely nothing was off-limits.

And just like that, John B and JJ melted into the crowd toward the front lawn, leaving them to navigate the sprawling estate solo. Estate was probably too modest a word. This place was fucking massive—like someone had taken a five-star resort, a movie theater, and a Roman villa and smashed them together with unlimited funds and zero taste. Marble columns rose toward the darkening sky, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed glimpses of crystal chandeliers inside, and every corner seemed designed to remind people like they exactly where they didn’t belong.

Compared to their dingy trailer with its rusted siding and perpetually broken air conditioning, this might as well have been Buckingham Palace.

They wound their way along the side of the building, staying close to the shadows, eyes scanning for any sign of their friends. But then movement caught their attention—a male waiter in a crisp white jacket and black bow tie, carrying a silver tray laden with champagne bottles, each one probably worth more than their entire monthly income. The golden liquid inside caught the string lights, practically glowing with expensive promise.

Free alcohol? Hell yes.

Without breaking stride, they cast a quick glance over their shoulder, confirmed no one was watching, and smoothly snatched one of the bottles as they breezed past. Their fingers closed around the cool glass neck, and they were already pushing off into a full sprint before the waiter even registered what happened.

“Hey! HEY! Get back here, you little shit!”

The waiter’s voice erupted behind them, sharp with indignation and fury, but they were already gone, weaving through clusters of well-dressed guests in designer suits and cocktail dresses that cost more than their life. They couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up—wild, breathless, childlike in its pure glee. Suck it, rich people.

They clutched the champagne bottle against their chest like a trophy, adrenaline singing through their veins as they dodged around a group of middle-aged women in pearls, past a cluster of guys in pastel polos, their boat shoes probably more expensive than their entire wardrobe.

Just as they were about to round the corner of the main building, still riding that high of petty theft and rebellion, a figure stepped directly into their path.

The collision was immediate and unavoidable.

They slammed into them at full speed, the impact reverberating through their chest as both bodies stumbled backward. A grunt punched out of their lungs, their free hand instinctively shooting out to steady themselves against the brick wall. The other person made a small, surprised sound—softer, more startled than pained.

But there was no time for apologies or explanations because the waiter’s voice was getting closer, accompanied now by the sharp click of dress shoes on pavement.

“—fucking Pogues, I swear to God—”

Shit, shit, shit.

Pure instinct took over. Their hands shot out, fingers wrapping around the stranger’s forearms with more force than they intended, and they shoved them back against the brick wall of the estate. The champagne bottle pressed between them, and their other hand flew up to clamp over the person’s mouth—firm, unyielding, silencing whatever protest or gasp might give them away. Their body crowded in close, using their frame to shield them both in the shadow of an alcove, hearts hammering in tandem.

They held their breath, head turning just enough to peek around the edge of the wall. Through the gap, they could see the waiter, red-faced and scanning the crowd with barely contained rage. His eyes swept past their hiding spot once, twice—

“Forget it,” The waiter finally muttered, loud enough for them to catch. “Not worth the hassle.” With a final disgusted sound, he turned on his heel and stalked off in the opposite direction, disappearing back toward the main party.

Relief flooding through them in a warm wave. Thank God.

The tension in their shoulders eased, and they became suddenly, acutely aware of how close they were standing to this person—chest nearly flush against theirs, hand still pressed over their mouth, fingers still wrapped around their forearms. The brick wall was rough against the persons back, their body caging them in completely.

They pulled their hand away from their mouth, already opening their mouth to offer some half-assed apology for the manhandling—

And then they actually looked at who they’d crashed into.

Their breath caught.

Sarah Cameron.

The Sarah Cameron. Kook royalty. Princess of Figure Eight. Daughter of Ward Cameron, whose net worth probably had more zeros than they could count. She stood there, blonde hair perfectly tousled in that effortless way that definitely wasn’t effortless, wearing some designer dress that probably cost more than their truck, looking every bit like she’d stepped out of a magazine spread about wealth and privilege.

What the hell was Sarah Cameron doing here? Well, okay, stupid question—of course she was at a Kook party. But wasn’t she supposed to be—what, at home painting her nails? Planning her next shopping trip to the mainland? Laughing at some private joke with her equally rich friends about how the other half lived?

Yet here she was, pressed against a brick wall, champagne bottle between them, hands still loosely circling her forearms, close enough that they could see the flecks of color in her eyes and smell whatever expensive perfume she was wearing.