Every party aboard Verity had its traditions—rituals whispered between PR assistants and seasoned models, passed down like gossip with glitter. But the game? That was the most iconic.
It always happened after the champagne turned sweeter, after the sun dipped low and the music settled into something thick and steady. A velvet box would be passed around, filled with folded slips of paper, each marked with a number.
You picked one. If your number was called, you got on stage. Introduced yourself. Did something—talk, sing, flirt, strip, tell a story, pitch a dream. It was all performance. All spectacle.
And if you were good enough? Someone remembered you.
A director. A casting agent. A stylist. Someone who mattered.
People got jobs from this. Campaigns. Roles. Magazine covers.
That's why the box was sacred—and terrifying.
When the host pulled it out and set it on a glass table, a ripple moved through the crowd. Laughter. Nerves. Like sharks sensing blood in the water.
