Then—
The machine detonates.
A vertical column of foam rockets toward the ceiling like an unleashed genie with rage issues. It hits the chandeliers and rains back down in a thick, sudsy downpour.
Shrieks tear through the gala.
“I GOT IT!” Blaze yells.
He absolutely does not got it.
He grabs the cannon.
The foam DOUBLES.
He adjusts his grip.
It TRIPLES.
Within thirty seconds, the stage disappears. At forty-five, the front row vanishes. Sixty seconds later, the entire ballroom is a bubble bath gone rogue and foam is still—still—spewing across the dance floor in relentless, frothy waves.
I stare at my monitors.There is no protocol for this.
And then—
Cole moves.
He vaults onto the nearest banquet table, dress shoes skidding through foam, and cups his hands around his mouth.
“BLAZE!” he shouts. “It’s a foam rave!”
The DJ doesn’t flinch. The beat hits and the room loses its collective mind.
Blaze’s eyes light up as though someone has handed him purpose. With a throaty war cry, he hurls himself into the foam. Singles everywhere squeal, heels fly off, and phones go up.
Cole rips off his tux jacket, then his shirt. He uses the fabric to swipe foam from the lens. Then tosses it aside and keeps filming, bare-chested.
The chat is a blur of excitement:
WHO IS THE CAMERAMAN
SOMEBODY’S HUSBAND TOOK HIS SHIRT OFF
sir this is a conservation event
foam rave for the sea lions i’m crying
DONATE OR YOU’RE A COWARD
The foam is a goddamn blizzard.
It’s clogging the vintage champagne flutes, suffocating the centerpieces, and Juliette’s leather clipboard just floated past my knees on a sudsy wave.
The guests are dancing, and they’re full-on feral. It’s like a high-society car wash gone wrong, and the internet is hurling money at the donation ticker.
It screams past six figures, and it’s official. We’ve gone viral.
I should be thrilled. I’m not thrilled.
