Unworthy, but Chosen

Liam POV

—

I didn’t build my empire on good decisions. I built it on excess.

Tonight’s proof of that, lights strobig through smoke, bass shaking the marble floors of my penthouse, and too many bodies pressed together to tell where one ends and another begins. My name pulses in the air like a brand: Liam Cross. Everyone wants a piece of me. And honestly? I let them have it.

There’s something godlike about standing above a room full of sinners who’d sell their souls for your attention. I raise my glass, tequila and something gold I can’t pronounce, and the crowd cheers. They don’t even know why. They just follow the noise.

A girl grabs my arm, laughing too loudly, lipstick smeared like she’s been devoured. Maybe she has. Her name’s… what was it? Brooke? Bella? Doesn’t matter. She tastes like sugar and ambition. Another girl’s already watching from the couch, eyes dark and daring. They’ll fight over me by midnight. I’ll let them.

The speakers thump harder. Somewhere in the haze, a line of white powder disappears under a stranger’s nose. Someone offers me the rolled bill next, and I take it, not because I need the high, but because it’s what’s expected. The burn in my throat feels almost holy.

“Still undefeated,” my friend Nico yells over the music. He’s high enough to think he’s clever. “Another Cross party. You’re untouchable, man.”

I grin because he’s right, or at least he thinks he is. Untouchable. Invincible. Desired. The trinity I live by.

I glance around the room, crystal chandeliers, designer suits, the kind of champagne that costs more than some people’s rent. I made all of this from nothing: betting on startups, stocks, poker tables, and my own charm. I used to tell myself I earned it. Now I just tell myself it’s mine.

A girl slides onto my lap. She smells like vanilla and danger. Her laugh vibrates against my throat. “You’re a bad man, Liam Cross,” she purrs.

“I know,” I say, and she laughs harder, because bad is exactly what they came for.

Another bottle pops somewhere. Glitter rains down from the balcony. My security guards pretend not to see what’s happening in the corners of the room, half-dressed dancers, a guy vomiting into a vase worth ten grand.

I don’t stop any of it. This is what being alive feels like, right? Chaos, noise, heat, hands. The city outside doesn’t exist; there’s only this, the moment before dawn when sin feels like freedom.

The music changes, slower now, heavier. I lean back on the couch, letting the world spin. The ceiling looks like stars. My heart’s a hammer. For a second, I almost feel infinite.

Almost.

Because when the girl leans in again, and her lips brush my ear, something inside me flinches, tiny, invisible. I drown it with another drink.

“Tell me,” she whispers, “what’s it like being you?”

I flash her my practiced grin, the one that’s on magazine covers and billboards. “Like being everyone’s favorite mistake.”

She laughs, delighted, and I hate how good that feels.

Nico stumbles over with a handful of pills and a bottle of vodka. “Round two, my king,” he says. The crowd cheers like I’m royalty. I spread my arms wide, welcoming the chaos.

Someone shouts my name. Music swells again. Another flash, another kiss, another girl to fuck later, another meaningless promise. And I think, fleetingly, how easy it is to play god when everyone around you wants to worship.

The night didn’t end. It just changed shape.

At some point, my penthouse stopped being a room and became a living, breathing beast, all sound and sweat and light. Someone started a fire in the marble fireplace even though it was mid-June. The air-conditioning fought for its life and lost.

I was in my element. I always am.

The DJ was a friend of a friend from Ibiza, the kind who never sleeps and never plays the same track twice. He looked at me and said, “You run this city, Cross.”

“Not just the city,” I said, grinning. “The world.”

Everyone cheered. Why wouldn’t they? That’s the thing about confidence, fake it loud enough and people will kneel before it.

Cameras flashed. Someone climbed onto the glass table to dance. I could see downtown from the windows, a thousand glittering lights bowing to me. I raised my glass to them, my kingdom of neon and sin.

I didn’t care that it was almost five in the morning. The night was still mine to burn.

Another girl appeared, tall, sleek, wearing a dress made of sequins and bad intentions. I’d never seen her before, which made her interesting. She looked me over like she was choosing a flavor. “You’re Liam Cross.”

“Guilty,” I said.

“I’ve heard stories.”

“Most of them are true.”

She smirked. “Then make one worth remembering.”

We didn’t make it halfway down the hallway before clothes became optional.

By sunrise, the city was bleeding gold through the floor-to-ceiling windows. People were passed out across couches, rugs, and each other. My head buzzed. My heart raced. Someone was still laughing in the kitchen, pouring champagne into cereal bowls.

I stretched out on the balcony railing, shirtless, barefoot, smoke curling from between my fingers. The wind off the high-rise cut through the heat of the night, cool and sharp. The city moved below, tiny cars, tiny lives.

I felt untouchable. That was the point.

Nico stumbled out behind me, sunglasses already on. “We did it again, brother. Another night for the books.”

“We always do.”

He grinned, slapping my shoulder. “You’re a legend, Cross. Nobody parties like you.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a legend if I did,” I said.

The girl from last night, sequins and danger, appeared in the doorway, wearing my shirt and holding my phone. “It’s blowing up,” she said, scrolling. “Your video’s everywhere. You’re trending.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Good or bad?”

She laughed. “Does it matter? Everyone’s watching.”

That was all I needed to hear. I walked over, snatched the phone, and hit play.

Someone had filmed me standing on the bar around midnight, shirt open, arms wide, shouting, “If there’s a heaven, it’s right here, right now!” Confetti rained down. Champagne sprayed. The crowd screamed my name.

The video looped, my own voice echoing through my penthouse. Heaven, right here. Heaven, right now.

I laughed, loud and unbothered, throwing the phone onto the couch. “Looks about right.”

Nico whooped. “To the king!”

They all cheered again, raising bottles, glasses, fists.

“To the king!”

I took the champagne bottle from Nico, climbed onto the balcony rail, and looked down forty stories. The world tilted beneath me, cars the size of matchboxes, people like dust. Someone screamed my name from inside, telling me to get down. I just grinned wider.

Because this was what power felt like, standing on the edge with nothing holding you back.

I raised the bottle high and shouted, “To everything they said I’d never be!”

The crowd roared. Cameras flashed again.

And then —

A blinding white light exploded across the sky. Not lightning. Not dawn. Something brighter.

The sound hit next, a sharp, cracking boom that shook the glass behind me. The party froze. Someone dropped a bottle. It shattered, tiny stars across the floor.

I squinted at the skyline. Down the street, smoke curled into the early morning air, dark, violent, wrong. Sirens screamed to life somewhere far below.

“What the hell was that?” Nico said, his voice suddenly sober.

I didn’t answer.

Because for one breath, one impossible heartbeat, I could’ve sworn I heard my name echo from somewhere inside that explosion.

Not shouted. Not human. Just… known.

The city’s power flickered, lights blinking out, and for the first time all night, the music stopped.

Everything went black.