Prologue

No one threw parties like Maximus Wallace. Not in Midtown section of Manhattan, not in the '80s, and certainly not in 1986—the year he decided to throw his most opulent bash yet: The Electric Ball.

His empire, a gleaming modernist fortress perched on the heart of New York, pulsed with color from the city lights. The entire Wallace mansion had been transformed into a time capsule—if the capsule were built from pure cocaine dreams and limitless cash. Spotlights cut through the night sky, casting beams across the manicured lawn where chrome panthers prowled, and a full-sized neon-lit replica of the Back to the Future DeLorean rotated slowly on a glass pedestal.

Limousines purred up the drive in a constant stream. Out stepped socialites, pop stars, Wall Street titans, and European royalty—each wrapped in satin, sequins, and smugness. Men in pastel Armani suits with pushed-up sleeves walked beside women whose shoulder pads looked like weapons. A few guests showed up as their favorite 80s icons—one hedge fund manager came dressed as Bowie in Labyrinth, complete with crystal ball.

Inside, Wallace had spared no expense. The ballroom was lit like a nightclub, but layered with old-world decadence: Baccarat chandeliers flickered in rhythm with pulsing synth bass, and walls of video monitors played a looping montage of MTV classics, Reagan speeches, and digital art that could cause seizures if you stared too long. A custom-built floor-to-ceiling disco ball reflected a thousand versions of every guest, each flash of light a different decade.

Maximus made his entrance around ten, descending a staircase like a crowned prince, clad in a white armani tuxedo. He didn’t speak. He just raised his champagne glass and grinned—he was already high on his own myth.

On the main dance floor, the crowd surged to the beat of a surprise set by Grace Jones, who emerged from a fog of dry ice riding a white stallion. Somewhere in the back lounges, models and moguls whispered lines of powdered ambition on mirrored tabletops. Someone lit a hundred-dollar bill just to light a cigar. There were rumors that Prince might perform later—Maximus had sent his private jet.

Maximus went to the stage and raised his hand holding the champagne—that’s when the music stops and all the people gathered in the middle to hear him talk.

“Good evening, everyone,” he paused and smiled. “I just want to take a moment to thank each and every one of you for being here tonight. Your presence means more than you know—not just to me, but to the journey we’ve all taken together or in parallel.” He took a deep breath before continuing.

“This isn’t just a celebration of milestones or wealth—it’s a celebration of relationships, hard work and the people who believed when belief wasn’t easy. I’ve always said success is never a solo act. Behind every deal, every risk, every breakthrough—there are people. People who inspire, challenge, support, and sometimes even question us—and that’s how it goes. Cheers to lasting connections and continued partnerships. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of the evening.” He drank the wine straight and went down on the stage. People gave him a round of applause but he didn’t appreciate it because they are all a bunch of hypocrite predator.

Maximus went to his office to be alone. Being in a crowd gave him a headache. He poured bourbon in his glass and drink it straight when Brent Williams—his right hand came in. Brent is with him since day one. When he was struggling with his business and now that he’s a Billionaire.

“What?” he asked sternly.

“Nothing. I just want to check on you. Do you need anything?” he asked.

“Get someone here now. I want to be entertained while everyone was doing their shit,” he demanded. Brent nodded and left him.

After a few minutes someone knock in the glass door and a woman in red cocktail dress went inside. He can’t see her face because of the mask and the light was dim.

“How will you entertain me?” he asked while pouring liquor in his glass.

“I-I can dance…” she answered with a hint of innocence in her beautiful but nervous voice.

“You better be good because I’ll pay you a hefty amount,” he sat on the couch and stared at the stranger in front of him.

Maximus felt a surge of electricity when the woman started dancing. From how she moved her hips and her cleavage kept on moving closer to his face. He can’t help but to grab her and the next thing he knew he was kissing her. The woman tried to push him away but he’s strong and he likes that she’s resisting.

Maximus nibbled her ear while his hand was busy with one of her temples.

“P-please, stop, Mister Wallace,” she pleaded in her weak voice. But he didn’t listen to her. In his mind he will just pay her a large sum. He just needs to release the heat inside him.

Everything happened so fast and before Maximus can process everything—the woman stormed out of his office. She even forgot her pumps. He ran to chase her—half naked and he’s zipping his pants when he saw Brent.

“Where is the woman?” he asked panting.

Brent’s eyebrow creased in confusion. “What? Who? I came here to tell you that I can’t find anyone to entertain you,” he answered.

Now, he’s also confused. If Brent is not the one who sent her, then who? How did she end up in his office? He massaged his temple and turned his back to go back in his office.

“Did something happen, Maximus?” he asked.

“No. Nothing. Just go downstairs. Make sure the party is going on smoothly,” he answered.

By 3 a.m., people were dancing barefoot in the fountains. Helicopters hovered overhead, filming for posterity, or perhaps just for Maximus’ private archive. He liked to rewatch his own parties, like some people rewatch war documentaries.

No one knew how much the night cost—rumors ranged from three to eight million. But money wasn’t the point. Power was. Image was. And in that moment, bathed in neon and synth, Maximus Wallace was the wealthiest bachelor in New york that never cared how it ended, only how brightly it burned.