The charity auction was an exercise in polished boredom. Crystal glasses chimed in a steady rhythm, mixing with the low murmur of a hundred conversations about money and influence. I stood by Charles's side, a silent, observant shadow, my role perfectly calibrated. I was present enough to be acknowledged, but invisible enough to be overlooked. It was a delicate balance, and I was good at it.
"Charles," a voice cut through the polite hum, smooth as silk and just as strong. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you considered these things a tax write-off with mediocre entertainment."
A man approached, flanked by two assistants. He was in his late forties, with silver at his temples and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He moved with an easy confidence that spoke of old money and newer ruthlessness. His name was Julian Thorne, a CEO from a rival firm, a man Charles had bested in a hostile takeover the previous year.
