The airship was beautiful—Goldilocks had to give it that.

  Three massive circur bck disks stacked like yers of an eborate cake, each one a full deck enclosed in seamless gss that curved around like a crystalline window. The top deck was open-air lounging, the middle deck held the main party, and the lower deck was for those who wanted privacy. The whole thing floated through the night sky on a combination of enchantment and technology, manufactured in Oz at a price that made even other wealthy families balk.

  Her father had bought it for her birthday. "For my golden girl," he'd said, beaming.

  Goldilocks stood near the railing on the middle deck, a gss of champagne in one hand and a slim cigarette in the other. Around her, the party pulsed with life—music, ughter, beautiful people in expensive clothes doing expensive drugs and fucking. The Goals were in full form tonight. Madison was dancing with two men at once. Harper was sprawled on a velvet couch with a man. The twins—Beatrice and Charlotte—were taking turns doing lines off a elf's beautiful ass.

  Goldilocks took a drag from her cigarette and felt nothing.

  She should be having fun. This was her world. Her people. Her fucking airship.

  But all she could think about was a mercenary who'd looked at her like she was nothing.

  "Goldie."

  Sloane's voice cut through her thoughts. Goldilocks turned.

  Sloane was sprawled across the curved gss bench near the center of the deck, completely naked from the waist down, a champagne flute banced casually in one hand. Between her legs, fully naked, was *that girl*—the one who'd been hanging around for months now, desperate to be accepted into the Goals. She was working hard, her short bck hair being stroke absently by their leader while she was carrying on a conversation with a merchant's son like nothing unusual was happening.

  Goldilocks walked over. She'd seen this scene so many times it barely registered anymore.

  Sloane waved off the merchant's son and patted the bench beside her. "Sit."

  Goldilocks sat, taking another pull from her cigarette.

  Sloane studied her with sharp eyes—the same eyes that had seen through every fake smile and hollow excuse Goldilocks had ever attempted. "You're not having fun."

  "I'm having fun."

  "Bullshit." Sloane's breath hitched slightly as the girl between her legs did something particurly effective, but her voice stayed steady. "You've been moping for three days. What's going on?"

  Goldilocks looked away, watching Madison spin between her dance partners. "Nothing."

  "Goldie." Sloane's tone was firm now. "I can tell when something's bothering you. Talk."

  Down below, the girl kept working. Goldilocks felt a pang of something—pity, maybe? The girl thought if she just kept doing this, kept being avaible, Sloane would eventually let her in. But Goldilocks knew better. Sloane would use her for months, maybe years, and never give her what she wanted.

  *Is that what I'm doing? Chasing someone who'll never want me back?*

  "There was this guy," Goldilocks said finally, her voice quiet under the music. "At the Rusty Nail. A few days ago."

  Sloane's eyebrows rose. "And?"

  "And he was... different. Big. Dangerous-looking. We fucked. Twice. It was incredible." Goldilocks took a long drag from her cigarette. "And then the next day I saw him in the market and he didn't even remember my name."

  "So?" Sloane shifted slightly, adjusting her position. The girl never paused. "Plenty of guys don't remember names after."

  "I know. But..." Goldilocks struggled to articute it. "He treated me like I was nothing. Like I was just... disposable. And when I tried to talk to him, he basically told me to fuck off because he had business to handle."

  "Good," Sloane said ftly. "Sounds like he's not worth your time."

  "That's not—" Goldilocks stopped, frustrated. "Everyone else falls all over themselves for my attention. Everyone. And he just... didn't care. At all."

  Sloane studied her for a long moment, then ughed—a sharp, incredulous sound. "You're upset because someone *didn't* worship you?"

  "No. Maybe. I don't know." Goldilocks stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby crystal ashtray. "I just can't stop thinking about him."

  "His name?"

  "Little John."

  "Little John," Sloane repeated, then gestured with her champagne gss toward the dance floor. "Is he built like that guy over there?"

  Goldilocks followed her gaze. There was a man dancing near the center—tall, muscur, dark-haired, moving with confident ease. He was objectively attractive. Exactly the type Goldilocks usually went for.

  "Yeah," Goldilocks admitted. "Simir build."

  "So go fuck him." Sloane said it like it was the simplest solution in the world. "Problem solved."

  "Yeah, but he's not—"

  Sloane's breath caught suddenly, her eyes going unfocused. Her hand tightened on the champagne gss as her body tensed, then rexed. She let out a slow breath and patted the girl's head absently. "Okay. Stop."

  The girl pulled back immediately, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked up at Sloane with hopeful, eager eyes.

  Sloane didn't even gnce at her. She took a sip of champagne and turned her full attention back to Goldilocks. "Listen to me. You are rich. You are gorgeous. You are *Goldilocks*—every man and half the women in this kingdom want you. Why the fuck are you wasting energy on some random mercenary who doesn't appreciate what he had?"

  "I don't know," Goldilocks said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

  "Well, figure it out." Sloane's tone was firm but not unkind. "You're young. You're beautiful. You have everything. Stop being a sad sack and have some fucking fun."

  Goldilocks looked at her friend—naked, unbothered, completely in control of her world. Sloane was right. She was being ridiculous.

  "Yeah," Goldilocks said, forcing a smile. "You're right."

  "I know I am." Sloane gestured toward the dance floor. "Now go dance with that guy who looks like your mercenary and remind yourself that men are interchangeable."

  Goldilocks stood, smoothing down her dress. She drained her champagne, handed the empty gss to a passing server, and made her way toward the dance floor.

  The man saw her coming and smiled—eager, appreciative, exactly what she was used to. He was handsome. Well-built. His hands on her waist were warm and confident as they started moving together.

  But as they danced, as he leaned in close and said something complimentary she barely heard, all Goldilocks could think about was Little John.

  The way he'd looked at her in the market. Like she was an interruption. Like she didn't matter.

  *Why can't I let this go?*

  The man pulled her closer, his body pressed against hers, and Goldilocks closed her eyes.

  *He's just a mercenary. Just some guy. This doesn't matter.*

  But even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie.