"I'm going to kill him!" Press grunted in frustration, knocking his head against the headrest behind him.

"Because I know you, I know you're just angry," Harley said through the speakerphone. "But I will say this is not the attitude to have. You're supposed to be securing your bag today, not catching a case."

"You know I don't do violence. But I can do sabotage."

"Can you please make sure you get the content we need before you start plotting some grand sabotage scheme? Luxecaster doesn't care about your love life, babe. They care about views."

Press gripped the steering wheel tighter as he merged onto the highway toward Caldera Heights. He'd already stopped at the dorms, taken a shower and got dressed as fast as he possibly could. As if leaving Xander alone with Mateo for one minute longer than necessary would result in a marriage proposal. Dramatic? Maybe. But Press didn't trust Xander as far as he could throw him.

The afternoon sun blazed through his windshield, casting long shadows across the hood of his car. Palm trees blurred past on either side, their fronds barely moving in the still, heavy air. It was going to be a hot one. Perfect weather for a garden party.

If he could find his way in.

"I just want to know what Xander is even doing there," Press continued. "He showed up this morning like he owned the place. Dr. Santos hugged him, Harley. Hugged him. She's never hugged me in the two years I've been dating her son."

Harley sighed through the phone. "Well, knowing Xander, he loves injecting himself into places where he's not wanted. But did it ever occur to you that maybe he was actually invited?"

"Yeah. Probably by Dr. Santos herself."

"Okay, and? What are you going to do about it? Fight him in the rose garden?"

Press didn't answer. His mind was spinning too fast.

"Press. Focus. Today is huge. The Santos Garden Party is the event of the summer. Every magical family in Los Angeles is going to be there. This is your chance to get Luxecaster to renew your contract."

She was right. The Santos Garden Party was the unofficial season opener for the magical elite of Caldera Heights. If you had magical money, you were there. Old Magic, New Magic, didn't matter. This was the event where alliances were formed and deals were made.

"I know," he muttered. "I just hate that Xander gets to waltz in there like he belongs while I'm literally banned."

"So you're just going to show up anyway?"

"What other choice do I have? I can't not be there, Harley. My dad and his wife are going to be there. Every magical family in LA is going to be there. If I'm the one person missing, what does that say about me?"

"It says Dr. Santos is a controlling witch who doesn't deserve the title of doctor. Now what's the plan for content?"

Press glanced down at his feet. The Luxecaster kicks were fresh out of the box, sleek white sneakers with gold threading that pulsed faintly with enchantment. He had to admit, he looked good.

"Toward the end of the party, I'll position myself in the garden and activate my Elementalism. Make every flower within a ten-foot radius bloom in sync while the shoes glow gold to match the petals. Luxecaster will eat it up."

"Gorgeous. And you've got your affinities loaded?"

Press touched the watch on his wrist. Most New Magic families kept their affinities stored in something portable. He preferred his watch, the way the affinities slotted into the band like tiny microchips, invisible to anyone who didn't know to look.

"Elementalism, glamour touch, and Overhear," he confirmed. "Just in case."

"Overhear? The spy one?"

"If they try to turn me away at the gate, I want to know who's pulling the strings." Press's jaw tightened. "And maybe I want to see what Xander is up to. All I have to do is point my watch and whisper the incantation."

"That's incredibly invasive and I love it." Harley said. Then she paused. "Just be careful, okay? And don't forget your tripod is still in Mateo's room."

"I'll grab it before I film."

"Good. Now go secure that bag and stop thinking about Xander who peaked in high school."

Press almost smiled. "I'll call you after."

"You better. Stay cheeky, baby."

The call ended just as Press turned onto the familiar tree-lined road that led to the Santos estate. The hedges loomed ahead, shimmering faintly with protective enchantments and their Old Magic money on full display.

He pulled up to the gate and pressed the button on the sleek keypad.

A mechanical voice crackled through the speaker. "State your business."

"Preston Gregor. I'm here for the garden party."

"Please sign your personal sigil for verification."

Press leaned out the window and traced his sigil in the air with the pen he kept in his center console. The magic shimmered, processing.

Then a loud, harsh honk blared from the speaker.

ACCESS DENIED.

Press's heart sank, but he wasn't surprised. "What? No, that's wrong. Try it again."

He signed his sigil again. Another honk.

ACCESS DENIED.

"Come on," Press muttered, signing it a third time. Same result.

A car pulled up behind him.

Press's neck prickled with sweat. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a sleek black Mercedes waiting. Now he was holding up the line. People were going to see him getting rejected at the gate like some pathetic crasher. This was literally his worst nightmare playing out in real time.

The Mercedes's driver door opened and a man stepped out. Salt and pepper hair, with leathery brown skin and crow's feet crinkling around tired eyes. Mr. Santos. He looked more exhausted than usual, his suit slightly rumpled, his tie loosened like he'd already had a long day and the party hadn't even started.

"Preston?" Mr. Santos approached his window, brow furrowed. "Is there a problem?"

"My sigil isn't working," Press said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "It keeps saying access denied. I think there might be a glitch in the system."

Mr. Santos studied him for a moment. Press had never been able to read this man. He wasn't warm like Mateo, but he wasn't cold like Dr. Santos either. Just observing. Like he was too tired to form opinions about anything anymore.

Then Mr. Santos did something that surprised him. He walked to the keypad, signed his own personal sigil, and the gates swung open without a sound.

"Go ahead," Mr. Santos said, waving Press through.

"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate—"

But Mr. Santos was already walking back to his Mercedes.

Press tapped his watch and whispered, "Overhear."

The world shifted. Sounds that had been distant and muddled suddenly sharpened and separated, like someone had fine-tuned a radio dial. He could hear the crunch of Mr. Santos's shoes on gravel, the rustle of his jacket, even the tired exhale of his breath.

And then, so quiet it was almost lost beneath the other sounds, Mr. Santos muttered to himself as he climbed back into his car. "She can't control everything around here."

After they drove through, the gates closed behind them both. Press filed that away as he followed the winding driveway toward the house. She. Dr. Santos. What couldn't she control? And why did Mr. Santos sound so worn down about it?

Press parked near the side entrance and stepped out into the blazing afternoon sun. The heat pressed against his skin immediately. The backyard was already being transformed into something out of a magazine spread with enchanted lanterns floated in clusters overhead, waiting to be lit at dusk. Long tables draped in white linen stretched across the lawn. The rose bushes were in full bloom, impossibly perfect, their petals shimmering with preservation charms. Servants in crisp uniforms carried trays of glasses and appetizers toward stations around the pool.

And there, standing near the rose garden with an enchanted clipboard hovering beside him, was Xander Nicholas.

He was directing a servant on where to place a floral arrangement, his floppy blond hair catching the sunlight like he was shooting a shampoo commercial. When he spotted Press, his eyebrows lifted in mock surprise.

"Preston." Xander's voice dripped with false delight. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face today. Especially after last night."

Press's stomach clenched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you don't remember?" Xander's smile widened. "Jumping into Connelly's pool fully clothed? Slurring your words? Having to be carried to Mateo's car like a toddler who missed his nap?" He tilted his head with exaggerated sympathy. "It was quite the performance. People are still talking about it."

"People need better hobbies."

Xander turned back to his clipboard, scribbling something down with a pen. "Dr. Santos asked me to help with the decorations. She trusts my taste. Unlike some people, I actually add value when I show up to things."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The smug boy glanced back at him, his smile turning sharp. "You know, Preston, I'm not the only one who thinks you're pathetic. Your friends do too. They're just too polite to say it to your face."

The words almost knocked the wind out of Press.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Xander's eyes glittered with cruelty. "Emma. Connelly. They talk, you know. About how exhausting it is to keep pretending you belong in their world. About how Mateo could do so much better." He shrugged one shoulder casually. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

Press's vision went red at the edges. He wanted to say something cutting, something that would wipe that look off Xander's face. But his throat had closed up and his mind was screaming too loud for him to form words.

Xander turned back to his clipboard, dismissing Press completely. "Run along now. Some of us have actual work to do."

Press walked away before he did something he'd regret. His pulse hammered in his ears so loud it drowned out everything else.

Your friends think you're pathetic too.

Was that true? Did Emma and Connelly laugh about him behind his back? Did they sit around with Xander and talk about how Mateo could do better?

He needed to know.

A servant passed by with a tray of drinks. Flutes of champagne and small crystal glasses filled with pale blue liquid that glowed softly. Mind-soother elixir. It was socially acceptable at events like this, meant to take the edge off anxiety and quiet racing thoughts.

Press hesitated. He remembered Mateo's face this morning, the disappointment in his eyes when he described having to clean up after Press's mess from the night before. The hilarity elixirs and the pool. Apparently Press had been a disaster and didn't even remember half of it.

But his mind was spinning at a hundred miles an hour. His thoughts felt like wasps trapped in a jar, stinging him from the inside.

Just one, he told himself. Just to take the edge off.

He grabbed a glass of the mind-soother and took a long sip. The cool liquid slid down his throat and a gentle calm spread through his chest, quieting the noise. Press looked out at the garden, at the roses waiting to bloom around him.

And he decided he was going to have a little fun today.