The gala awaiting them just on the other side of the portal was widely regarded as a social event of unparalleled grandeur. The chandeliers were synthetic diamonds suspended on their own quadcopter drones. The champagne was from a vineyard on an asteroid in orbit, making the drinks being served today the rarest in existence. The wait staff was made entirely of what the guests believed to be a renowned ice ballet troupe known as the Princesses and Peasants of Winter. The band was so obscure even hipsters haven't heard of them. And this particular performance of Cirque de Étoiles had never been seen before, and would never be seen again.

At least, that was how Cardego Corp advertised their annual 'Circus on a Yacht' charity event. And all of was true.

Technically.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," Luca said to Isabella as he reached out and snatched a fluted glass away. The burly looking waitress who had served it stopped, and held her free hand over her mouth.

"Oh, I am so sorry," the waitress said, as took the glass from Luca and set it back on her tray. "I thought she was part of the VPP list."

Luca wasn't surprised to see Isabella frown. "Don't you mean VIP list?" she asked.

Luca laughed. "VPP. Very Pretentious People. The people who need to be impressed," he explained. He turned to the waitress and added "This is Isabella Bonny. Add her to the VIP list, if you would."

"Of course, Mister Cardego," the woman replied with a polite nod. She turned back to Isabella and asked, "so, what can I getcha, luv?"

"Well, I am thirsty," Isabella said, and she eyed the champagne flutes.

"Oh, take Mister Cardego's word for it, luv. You don't want to drink this. We'll get you hooked up," the waitress said.

Isabella snatched another glass anyway, glared at Luca, and took a tentative sip. Her look of smug defiance faded like a lightbulb that was just turned off, replaced by a look of abject disgust. She spat on the floor and began licking her coat. "Oh, ick, fuck, that's disgusting.

"I did warn her, boss," the woman said.

"You did, it's her own fault. If you would, find her a decent lager so she can get that taste off her tongue," Luca requester kindly.

The waitress nodded and grinned, before she turned around and walked away.

Luca watched her leave with a contented grin creeping across his face. The departing sashay of clingy fabric shifting with the gentle sway of curvy hips was both invigorating and slightly soporific.

"So, I hate to be judgemental, but she doesn't look like your conventional waitress for a bunch of lecherous Billionaires," Isabella noted, still wiping her tongue. Like Luca, she was watching the woman's departure, though she wasn't enjoying the sight with the same degree of appreciation. "She looks like she could probably clobber most of them."

"That's why I hired her," Luca agreed. He turned to see Isabella's look of shock and decided to explain himself. "Billionaires can struggle to keep their hands to themselves, so I hired a professional hockey team to do the serving. I make a point of letting them know that breaking a billionaire's nose, or arm, isn't necessarily a bad thing, and that I'll cover their legal costs if they get sued. Or want to sue."

"Well, that's one mystery. Now, what the hell was that piss you let me drink?" Isabella asked.

"The rarest vintage in the system. It's grown on the 'Blasted Rock', an asteroid caught in Earth's orbit that someone tried to grow a vineyard on," Luca said. "It tastes like microwaved grape juice mixed with moonshine. Which it is, because the radiation kills bacteria and it has no alcohol on its own."

"How the hell do you get away with calling it the 'rarest vintage in the system'?" Isabella asked.

"Because it is. The fact that it tastes like sugary piss doesn't seem to matter. The créme de la créme of society don't care about enjoying what they drink, just that it's beyond the reach of the peasantry," Luca said, and his smile faded as disgust churned through his stomach. He glanced around and scowled. "I hate these parties."

"Then why do you host them?" Isabella asked.

"Because everyone else hates them more," Luca replied with a wolfish grin. "Tickets cost a million dollars each, I always make sure both the wives and the mistresses know about the event well in advance, and I don't give out tax receipts."

"Wait, rich people normally get tax receipts for this?" Isabella asked.

"It's a charity event, so normally they do. But the charity these tickets go towards is 'Yachts for the Poor', and I use the proceeds to buy myself a bigger yacht," Luca finished. He frowned and shrugged. "For some reason, I never could get it registered as a proper charity."

"No one has ever needed charity less," Isabella said. She stepped up to the window and looked out.

Luca stepped beside her and looked out the window. The night sky was impossibly vivid, an astonishing sight for anyone who lived beneath the incandescent haze of Earth's trillion lights. Where even the most remote observer in Greenland or Antarctica might see a dozen stars, there were a hundred in the clean and luminescent glow of the universe only visible from the dark side of the moon.

"Hey, there's your planet," Isabella said, pointing out into the void.

Luca smiled as he followed Isabella's finger and spotted the dot she was gesturing towards. "Mine," Luca said quietly.

Isabella rubbed his shoulder and smiled at him. "We'll get it back."

"We will," Luca agreed, just as the serving woman returned with a couple of pints of amber-coloured ale. Luca took a long slip and felt the grin slipping back on his face. "Do you remember the plan?"

"Yeah," Isabella replied. "We find this Fabulo, I bat my eyelashes and pretend to be interested in what he's saying, and get him to talk about his plans to steal your planet."

"Exactly right," Luca said, just as a familiar and distinctly unpleasant smell stabbed at his nose. A distinctly arid, acidic smell of horrifically expensive cologne, mixed with a dozen different hair-products, and permeated with the irritating tang of silk over-saturated with dry-cleaning chemicals.

Luca rubbed his nose and hoped his eyes wouldn't water-up. "In fact, I think I smell Fabulo now."

Luca turned around and looked through the crowd. He grinned when he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man surrounded by a small flock of attendants and groupies, two of whom looked like they were carrying an industrial-sized fan. "Yep. My nose doesn't lie. I'm going to need the air recycling units scrubbed to get the smell of his hair products out."

"Well at least he doesn't smell like wet dog," Isabella said, as she jabbed Luca in the abs with her finger. She flinched and pulled her hand away. "Ow, fuck. You think I'd learn by now."

"Do I really smell like wet dog?" Luca asked.

Isabella stepped up to him close enough that her chest pressed against his upper arm, firmly enough to confirm to Luca that her cleavage wasn't 'surgically enhanced'. She leaned her head forward until her nose was resting just above his shoulder, beside his neck, and breathed in.

"I can't say," Isabella said, and she set her hand on his chest and pushed away gently. "You do smell good, though."

Luca grinned and put his hand on the small of her back. "Ready to go seduce a Wattpad cover model?"

"Born ready, baby," Isabella replied.

Wrapped together, they waded through the crowd until they reached the small mob orbiting Fabulo Lorenzo.

There was something that Luca always found both amusing and offensive about Fabulo's entourage. It was always a gratuitously large group, including several makeup artists, a trio of hairstylists, a dozen vapid floozies, and another two dozen people who were likely paid to hang around and agree enthusiastically with anything Fabulo said.

Every person in the Fabulo's entourage was shorter than the conceited cover model, to give the impression of lesser people orbiting the billionaire's radiance. Fabulo himself stood imperiously in the centre of the group, taking deep breaths to draw attention to his chest. His silicone-enhanced chest was poorly covered by a frilly white shirt done up with only one button just above his waist.

"So, Lorenzo," Luca called out as he and Isabella approached. The group parted like the buttons on women's shirts often did when he stepped into view, and left him an unobstructed path to the man he was speaking to. "Those wrinkles need more than any makeup artist can do for you."

"Ah, Luca Cardego. I thought I smelled something." Fabulo sneered, tossed his long hair back with an exaggerated flick of his head, and turned to face them. "Yes, it's that smell of undeserved success."

Luca laughed. "That smell would be envy, Lori, and it's coming from your armpits. By the way, body odour is a lot worse when you don't exercise regularly. A pec-sculpting job is not a substitute for doing some pushups."

"What? I didn't get a pec job!" Fabulo exclaimed in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice. He coughed, and then in a voice struggling to sound deep, like trying to force a ballon underwater, he continued speaking. "And you have clearly fallen off your workout regimen and into a doughnut shop, since you're wearing a shirt."

"I do like doughnuts," Luca said. "And you should really think about getting a shirt that actually works. Your liposuction scars are showing."

"I dunno," Isabella said. Luca turned to see her press her finger to her lips and look at Lorenzo thoughtfully. "I do like a man with some scars."

"Oh. Well, I don't believe we've been introduced, my lovely," Fabulo said. Lorenzo snapped his fingers as he took a step forward. Isabella glanced over to Luca quickly and made a face like she had just eaten something that both disgusted and shamed her.

Lorenzo's groupies took an industrial-sized fan and set it in front of their boss, who stood and posed pompously as he stared up at one of the synthetic diamond chandeliers. Another lackey knelt down on the floor to act as a stool, as Lorenzo set his boot on the woman's back. They turned the fan on, and the wind caught his shirt and hair, billowing out his shirt like a parachute and throwing out his hair dramatically.

"My name, dear, is Fabulo Lorenzo! Billionaire playboy philanthropist, and Wattpad's most popular cover model. Girls sigh my name by day and night," Fabulo said by way of introduction.

"You fucking owe me," Isabella whispered to Luca. But when she turned back to Lorenzo, her smile of vapid excitement was so convincing Luca idly considered buying her an Oscar. "So, Fabulo, tell me about yourself some more! I totally dig a strong man who isn't afraid to brag about his accomplishments."

Luca frowned, deciding that Izzy didn't quite deserve that Oscar. Her speech was so saturated with sarcasm it wouldn't be out of place on a British sitcom. Thankfully, not even Lorenzo's mother could have called her son clever with a straight face. Fabulo gave Isabella a beaming smile, which faded into confusion as she stopped beside him and held his arm, kicking one of her feet up behind her.

"Wait, I'm confused," Fabulo said. "Are you ditching him for me?"

"What does it look like, big boy?" Isabella asked with a giggle. "Greener grass, and all of that."

"That's usually caused by a septic problem," Luca noted drily. He shrugged and tried to make himself look as morose as possible. "Well, fiddles and fish sticks, it looks like the better man won."

"What?" Fabulo asked. His shock lasted only another moment before he crowed in delight. "Yes! The better man won at last! Come, girl, let's go celebrate with the most exclusive wine in existence, and rejoice as we watch the circus!"

Luca turned away, managing to get out of earshot before he fell over laughing.