Stepping out of the elevator, Max and Warma found themselves in a hallway lined with polished marble. A long strip of red carpet stretched out before them, guiding the way directly toward the tall double doors at the end. Golden light spilled from cracks at the edges, a beacon drawing them forward.
Just beside the doors, a gleaming plaque had been mounted. In bold, elegant script it read:
"Sheri Curts – Graduation Celebration."
Max let out a faint breath through his nose. Of course Sanna would announce it to the world like this.
As the two of them walked side by side, Warma pressed a hand against his stomach. His other hand fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. His face had grown pale, a thin sheen of sweat forming along his brow.
"I don't know why I'm so damned nervous," Warma admitted under his breath. "I mean, I've dealt with wealthy people before, plenty of them. I've negotiated with investors, lawyers, even tax officials. But this? This is another level entirely. They're not just clients; they're the sort of people who could crush me with a single word."
His laugh was uneasy, his steps faltering. "No, I think I need to gather myself first. I'll head to the bathroom. You go ahead without me."
Max gave him a side glance. He could almost hear Aron's voice in his head warning him about letting Warma out of sight. But maybe it was better this way. Two of them walking in together might raise questions, and Warma looked ready to collapse anyway.
"Fine," Max said simply, letting him peel off down a side corridor.
Alone now, Max continued forward. When the restaurant doors opened before him, he was greeted by a rush of warmth, laughter, and the soft notes of a string quartet drifting from the corner of the room. Chandeliers bathed the revolving restaurant in golden light, bouncing off polished crystal glasses and gleaming plates.
The first thing Max did was head straight for a table and pick up a glass of wine. The stem was cold in his fingers. He swirled the liquid once, hesitated, then took a sip.
I'm nearly eighteen. That's close enough.
The party had already been underway for some time. Guests were scattered in small clusters, glasses in hand, voices buzzing with talk of investments, connections, and opportunity. For most, the revolving door of arrivals was little more than background movement. But there were always sharp-eyed individuals who kept watch, always hunting for the next important contact.
Two such men stood near the bar, glancing toward the door each time it opened. Anton Stable and Christopher Owen.
Christopher nudged his companion when Max stepped in. "Oh? Who's that redhead? He looks familiar. Do I know him?"
"You should," Anton replied, his tone tight. "We've met him before. He's one of the Stern family."
Christopher nearly sputtered into his drink, swallowing hard to cover the slip. A Stern? He hadn't even recognized him at first glance.
"He looks different," Anton continued. "Taller. Bulked out. Guess that's what happens when a boy finally grows into himself. But don't forget, he was also Sheri's fiancé. Ex-fiancé, I should add."
Max, meanwhile, scanned the room for a path to slip into conversation without drawing too much attention. His heart beat steadily, not from nerves, but from calculation. He caught sight of Anton raising a hand, beckoning him over.
Great. Of all people… Max resisted the urge to sigh aloud. Aron hadn't prepared him for this particular encounter, how could he, when even he hadn't known who would attend? Still, Max doubted anything dangerous would happen here. Not in a public space crawling with representatives of the wealthy elite.
He moved toward the pair, posture calm.
"Max," Anton greeted, lips curling. "Strange seeing you here. I thought you and Sheri had called off the engagement."
"Right," Max replied smoothly, though inwardly he searched for a way to make them reveal their names without his asking directly. "But we're on good terms. No reason to burn bridges, right? We both graduated. Might as well celebrate."
Anton eyed the wine glass in Max's hand. "Are you sure you should be drinking that? You don't look old enough. Shouldn't you be sipping milk instead?" His voice carried a mocking lilt. "Surprised you came alone, too. What is this, trying to impress Sheri by showing up here, drink in hand, playing the adult? Trying to win her back?"
Christopher shifted uncomfortably, but Anton pressed on, his irritation bubbling to the surface. He had never gotten along with Max, not since the engagement fiasco. And the earlier humiliation about the necklace still burned.
Max tilted his head slightly. His voice came out steady, measured. "Are we really being this aggressive? We've only just spoken."
"Only just, ?" Anton barked out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Don't play dumb with me. You ugly red-haired bastard. It's a good thing Sheri broke it off with you. No wonder. You're nothing but the fly of your family. The Stern name deserves better."
The words cut, not because Max hadn't heard them before, but because they came from outside the Stern circle. He had almost fooled himself into believing the disdain stopped with his relatives. But here it was again, even among strangers. Respect for the Stern name, but none for him.
His jaw tightened, but he forced the anger down. Aron had drilled it into him, sometimes silence was the sharper weapon. Not everyone was worth a fight. Still, he wasn't going to let Anton's sneering pass entirely unanswered.
Max set his glass down with deliberate calm. "I'm sorry. Who are you again?" His tone was polite, but the words landed like a slap.
Anton's face went crimson. His hand curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening as his temper boiled over.
"I'm Anton Stable, you, " he spat, the insult barely restrained. Then, with fury clouding his judgment, he drew back his fist and swung.
The punch never landed.
Max's hand shot up with startling speed, catching Anton's wrist in mid-air. His grip was firm, unyielding, and the swing froze inches before it reached him. Gasps rang from those nearby, several heads turning toward the confrontation.
Max looked Anton in the eye, his expression cool and unreadable. His voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to silence the space around them.
"Right. I'll remember the name," Max said. "Anton Stable. The man who tried to strike me."