On the day of the gala, the Albrecht Estate was alive with energy. Cars lined up in a procession at the gates, with chauffeurs stepping out to open doors for the city’s elite. Inside the sprawling ballroom, the hum of conversation was only interrupted by the occasional clink of glasses or bursts of laughter. Waiters moved swiftly through the crowd, trays balanced, while the soft melody of a live quartet filled the air.Zen’s car pulled into the driveway, sleek and understated compared to the flashy limousines that preceded it. As he stepped out, two young attendants rushed forward. “Mr. Diel,” one said, bowing slightly. “Welcome to the gala. Let us guide you inside.” Zen adjusted his cuffs and gave a curt nod. “Lead the way.” The attendants escorted him through the grand entrance, where the doors opened to reveal the glittering scene inside. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and polished wood, every detail carefully curated to impress. Zen’s gaze scanned the room

Zen turned slowly, his eyes locking onto the man who had called out. His tone was sharp and mocking, cutting through the air like a whip. The man was tall, his stance brimming with arrogance as he squared his shoulders and stepped forward. Rosalia’s smile faltered, and she instinctively stood from her chair. “Jun, what are you doing?” Jun ignored her, his eyes focused entirely on Zen. “I’m asking what right he has to be sitting here with you.” Zen’s expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of annoyance in his gaze. He stayed calm, leaning slightly on the back of the chair he’d just pulled out for Rosalia. “And who are you to decide that?” Jun scoffed, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Who am I? That’s rich coming from someone like you. Do you even know where you are? Do you have any idea the kind of people in this room?” “I’m well aware,” Zen said evenly, his voice low but commanding. “Now, why don’t you explain why this concerns you?” Jun’s hand clenched i

The room hung in stunned silence, the air thick with disbelief. Yaya remained on his knees, his voice breaking as he groveled toward Zen. His head bowed so low it seemed he might sink into the marble floor. “Please, I’ll do anything!” Yaya’s words poured out like a flood, his hands trembling as they gripped the floor beneath him. “Just—just call them back. Restore my distribution channels. I can fix this! I’ll pay whatever you want!” Jun stared at his father, horror and confusion warring on his face. His voice came out sharp, cutting through the murmurs beginning to rise around the room. “Dad! What are you doing?” Jun took a step closer, grabbing Yaya by the arm. “Get up! Why are you kneeling to him?” Yaya barely turned, his eyes wild with desperation. “Let go of me, Jun! You don’t understand what’s happening here!” “I don’t understand?” Jun’s voice cracked as his confusion turned to anger. “You’re humiliating yourself! Him? He’s nothing! A useless son—” *SMACK!* Yaya’s ha

Outside, Malia stepped out of the sleek black limo, smoothing the soft fabric of her dress as she waited for her mother to join her. The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of chatter from guests arriving at the gala. Her mother, always poised, followed with a graceful step, clutching a small diamond-studded clutch as though it were her lifeline. “This is it,” her mother said, glancing toward the towering, illuminated building ahead. “Our chance to finally get things moving. You know how important tonight is, Malia.” “I know,” Malia replied, matching her mother’s pace as they made their way toward the grand entrance. “If we can get one of the big four families to back us, tackling Mega Group might actually be possible.” Her mother’s lips curved into a tight smile. “The Wales patriarch is our best bet. He’s always looking for ways to outmaneuver the others. All we need is for him to see the opportunity in us.” “And if he doesn’t?” Malia asked softly, though she alread

Somewhere in the villa, The Wales patriarch was suffocating, the office was thick with the weight of unspoken agendas. The dark wood walls seemed to close in, while the faint glow of the chandelier did little to dispel the heavy air. At the head of the long mahogany table stood the Wales patriarch, hands pressed firmly against the polished surface. His jaw was tight, rage barely concealed beneath his controlled expression. The doors creaked open. The patriarch of the Albrecht family entered first, his towering frame filling the doorway. He strolled in with slow, deliberate steps, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His gaze swept across the room, the look of someone who still found amusement in the chaos of others. Without a word, he sank into a chair, sprawling back lazily as though he owned the place. Behind him, Sinclair stepped in with a quiet precision. There was no swagger, no unnecessary movement—just a cold, calculating calm. He surveyed the room for a moment before choosin