After Warma's announcement, the entire tone of the evening shifted. The weight of expectation that had hovered like a storm cloud over him seemed to scatter into smaller currents, redirected toward whispers among the guests themselves.
The once–constant stream of businessmen, heirs, and opportunists trying to push their way into his orbit had slowed. No longer were they suffocating him with cards, rehearsed speeches, and handshakes that lingered too long. Instead, they sat back and began plotting. Groups clustered together in every corner of the revolving restaurant, their voices low but urgent as they muttered about strategies, introductions, and how best to approach the mysterious Billion Bloodline Group when the promised doors opened the following week.
For many of them, it was as if a light had been switched on in an otherwise bleak economy. Venture capital firms were notoriously cautious these days, their wallets tight, their patience thinner. Funding from a big VC had become rare, precious, almost mythical. To hear of a group like Billion Bloodline, new, aggressive, and already rumored to be making risky bets that paid off, felt to these guests like stumbling across a hidden treasure chest.
Max, watching all of this unfold from the sidelines, couldn't help but feel a quiet amusement. While Warma dabbed at his forehead, clearly overwhelmed by his own success, Max simply returned to his food. He sampled the appetizers, enjoyed the taste of roasted duck slices wrapped in crisp lettuce, and spoke to Warma when the older man wasn't swarmed.
Across the room, Sanna's energy never wavered. She flitted back and forth like a conductor ensuring her orchestra kept to tempo. At every opportunity, she paraded young men toward her daughter. She introduced Sheri to handsome heirs, clever representatives, polished speakers who were eager to dazzle her with stories of their families' success.
But Sheri's eyes told a different story. Even her mother could see it. No matter how smooth their words, no matter how much wealth glittered behind their smiles, her daughter's gaze wandered elsewhere, drawn, again and again, to a direction Sanna loathed.
Max.
It infuriated her, and so, at every chance, she sharpened her tongue against him. Little remarks slipped into conversation like tiny daggers, comparisons that belittled him beside the Bloodline Group, barbs that reminded him he had failed the engagement, failed her expectations.
Sheri winced at each jab, though she kept her composure. Max himself only smiled, his calmness somehow irritating Sanna further. The pattern repeated for hours, a push-and-pull of praise for one guest and criticism for another.
Finally, as the golden glow of the restaurant dimmed into evening and the last of the champagne glasses were drained, the graduation event came to its close.
No incidents. No public clashes. A success.
"Someone tried to punch you?" Aron's voice boomed, his tone clipped with disbelief. He was behind the wheel, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering tightly. Na sat in the passenger seat, quiet but listening, while Max lounged in the back of the black sedan.
"Who was it?" Aron pressed, his glasses flashing as they caught the streetlights. "Tell me his name, give me his details, and I'll eliminate him immediately. I'll make sure he never breathes near you again. That's my job."
Max rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Aron. It's not that serious. He didn't hurt me. Honestly, he didn't even seem like the kind of person worth worrying about."
Na smirked from the front, his head tilting toward the window. Everywhere this kid goes, something happens, he thought. He had once believed leaving the chaos of the Rejected Corps for a security role would lead to a quieter life. But with Max? It was the opposite. There was a storm swirling around him, something big and brewing, and Na knew deep down he had stepped right into the eye of it.
For now, Max didn't have a permanent place of his own. Rather than return to Brinehurst, where too many memories still lingered, he often stayed at Aron's sprawling apartment. It was either that or a hotel. And truthfully, Aron's apartment was so large it felt more like a small hotel anyway, with spare rooms and space to breathe.
But there was another reason Max found himself there so often.
"Welcome back, Uncle Max!" Mira chirped, her voice bright as she bounced up from the living room couch. The glow of the large television painted her face, though her eyes quickly returned to the cartoon she was watching.
The sight of her smile made Max pause. It warmed him in ways he didn't always understand. It reminded him, painfully, tenderly, of what had been lost. Of Jay. And of what little still remained, fragile threads he couldn't afford to let snap.
"I keep telling you," Aron muttered as he slid off his coat, "you should just buy one of the apartments in this building. Security is tight, there's ample room, and if you live here, I'll be nearby twenty-four seven."
Max smirked. "That's exactly why I don't want to live here. You'd be too close. Sounds more like a nightmare than a benefit."
"It's not so bad, Uncle Max," Mira chimed without looking away from the TV. "Uncle Aron is a great cook! And when we go outside, I've seen him glare at people. Scary people. They look like they want to run away."
Max chuckled softly. The bond between the two of them was undeniable. And in a strange way, it allowed him some measure of freedom. If Aron had to look after Mira, Max had the occasional chance to slip away.
Still, he leaned forward on the couch. "Don't forget, Mira, if anything ever bothers you at school, or anywhere, you tell me. Okay? Anything at all."
"Don't worry," Aron interjected, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I already run daily training sessions with her. She's learning to defend herself. At the very least, she'll be able to handle anyone her own age if the need arises."
Max froze. He pictured Mira squaring up against another nine-year-old. His sympathy leaned more toward the unfortunate classmates than toward her.
Curious, and a little nervous, he asked, "Hey Mira… Aron hasn't, by any chance, given you a taser or a stick or something… right?"
"Oh, you mean this?" Mira beamed, spinning on the couch. From her pocket she pulled out a small object and pressed a button.
Zzzzt, !
Bright blue sparks crackled in the air, the sharp zap of electricity making Max jolt back with wide eyes. His hands shot to his head.
"This is insane," he muttered. "I've seen people stab each other in alleys, I've seen people sell themselves for scraps on the street, but handing a nine-year-old a taser?"
He glared at Aron. "What are you doing?"
Aron didn't even flinch. "I'm doing a good job," he said plainly. "When I was her age, I used tools far more dangerous than this. You have to remember, Max, Mira is tied to the Stern family now. That makes her a target. The world she's in is a dangerous place."
Max exhaled slowly, running a hand through his red hair. He wasn't sure if Aron was brilliant or insane, or maybe both.
Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting some trivial update from Wolf or Joe. But the name on the screen made his eyes narrow.
A message from Warma.
"We need to talk…"