By the time the music shifted from polite jazz to something electronic and pulse-heavy, the gala had officially turned from business to pleasure.
The rooftop opened up, revealing a skyline soaked in neon. Glassware sparkled. Ice clinked. Laughter rippled through the crowd in waves, timed like performance art. Executives who'd spent the day discussing ethical automation were now debating yacht sizes and art auctions.
Lucas moved through it all with practiced ease—shoulders square, smile low-wattage, charm dialed just right. He was trying to see who was watching and waiting.
The first one found him by the balcony bar.
She wore a black jumpsuit with a back so low it looked sculpted on. Her hair was pinned into a glossy twist, and her eyes—steel-gray, clear—were watching him long before he noticed.
She held out a glass of bourbon without smiling.
"Isadora Yue," she said. "I figured you'd come talk eventually."
Lucas took the glass and held her gaze. "Eventually came quicker than I thought."
Isadora raised her glass. "Your father once said timing was the only real currency."
"Did he owe you any?"
She tilted her head. "He owed everyone something. The difference was I didn't ask him to pay it back."
Lucas nodded. "You worked with him?"
"For a while," she said. "Then against him. Then nothing at all."
Her tone was too calm. Too calculated.
"Any advice?" Lucas asked.
She leaned in slightly. "Don't confuse loyalty with proximity. And don't assume everyone here wants to see you fail. Some of us just want to see if you can hold your drink."
Then she walked off—her perfume lingering like a dare.
The second approached near the far wall, beside a sculpture of spiraling light code. She was smaller than he expected, wiry with sharp cheekbones and quiet eyes. Her dress was minimalist, but her watch probably cost more than a small country.
She stepped beside him like they were already mid-conversation.
"Your father invested in my startup before it existed," she said.
Lucas looked down at her. "Then you must be Mila Quon."
She smiled faintly. "He didn't just back me. He staked his reputation on me when no one else would. People don't forget that."
"I won't forget it either," Lucas said.
Her expression turned slightly clinical. "Good. Because 30% of my company still legally belongs to you."
Lucas nodded. "And what does that mean for us?"
"That depends. Are you Cyrus 2.0, or something newer?"
He gave her a half-smile. "Still in beta."
Mila let out a dry laugh. "So was he. Until the end."
Then she was gone.
The third didn't introduce herself.
She let the crowd part for her like fog before a flame. She was tall, sleek in an ivory suit with wide-leg pants and a halter top that clung like smoke. When she reached Lucas, she didn't speak.
She just sipped from her wine and waited.
Lucas watched her. "I know who you are."
Adrianna Jin smiled at last—just a flicker, not full.
"My reputation precedes me?"
"It walks two steps ahead of you and never apologizes."
She let out a low chuckle. "That's flattering. Your father and I used to play a game called Leverage or Lie. Want to try?"
"Not tonight."
"Smart," she said, swirling her wine. "You're a bit too honest for me to enjoy it anyway."
Lucas tilted his head. "You ever play nice?"
"I play real. And I respect whoever survives."
She leaned in—close enough for her breath to skim his collarbone.
"Right now, you're the most dangerous man in this room, Lucas Pan. Not because of what you know, but because you still think you can win clean."
Then she turned, heels clicking, and vanished into the crowd.
He hadn't made it five steps before he felt the cold shift in the air.
Not temperature.
Presence.
Frances Luo appeared near the main staircase in a velvet-red dress that shimmered like fresh blood under the lights. Eyes sharp. Lips curved in a smile that never meant what it said.
The music dipped just slightly when she arrived—as if the sound system recognized a villain entering frame.
Lucas didn't move. But the instinct to brace came fast.
Frances approached him slowly, one hand grazing a flute of champagne that she didn't drink.
"Making friends?" she asked, voice smooth.
"I'm getting familiar," he said.
She smiled wider. "They'll love you. Until you get in their way."
Lucas let the silence stretch.
Then: "Why are you really here, Frances?"
"I own 14% of this company," she said. "And I'm not going anywhere."
"You're not running it either."
"No," she said. "But I still get to watch the new king parade around like he earned the crown."
Lucas's gaze sharpened. "Say what you came to say."
Frances leaned close enough that her words slipped under the noise.
"You may have inherited his company. But you didn't inherit his instincts. And you won't see the blade until it's in your back."
Lucas didn't blink. "Then I'll bleed standing up."
Frances tilted her head slightly, then stepped back.
"I look forward to the show."
As she turned and melted into the crowd, Lucas stood alone for a moment—breath steady, heart controlled, mind sharp.
"Your performance was measured," ATHENA said quietly. "You drew no visible weakness. And all three women now consider you both threat and potential."
"Good," Lucas said. "That's the balance I want."
"You handled Frances well. But she's laying foundations. Her war will come sideways, not head-on."
"I know."
He glanced around the room. The lights, the conversations, the silk whispers of wealth and threat. It was a jungle in glassware and designer suits.
And Lucas wasn't just surviving it.
He was learning to hunt.
"She's still here," ATHENA murmured. "Adrianna Jin. Northwest mezzanine, corner booth. She's watching you between sips."
Lucas's eyes lifted, subtle.
He spotted her exactly where ATHENA said—legs crossed, posture loose, but attention locked on him like a cat to movement.
"She owns a 40% stake in the Crimson Tigers. The rest is split between two silent investors. It bleeds money every third season but maintains high public goodwill. Local legacy team. Scouting program strong. Merch pipeline underdeveloped."
Lucas smiled. "Textbook."
"No. Potential."
He made his way through the crowd, smooth and deliberate.
Adrianna clocked him before he spoke, but didn't sit up. "Couldn't resist another round of sparring?"
Lucas took the seat across from her. "I'm not here to spar. I'm here to make you an offer."
That got her interest. She arched a brow. "How charming. Go on."
"I want the Tigers."
She tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
"The basketball team. I'm taking it off your hands. Or—if you insist—we co-own. But I play the boss."
Adrianna laughed, genuine this time. "You want to buy a second-tier team after being handed an AI empire?"
Lucas didn't blink. "I've got my empire. Now I want my roots."
She sat back, swirling her glass. "What makes you think I'd give it to you?"
Lucas leaned forward, voice even.
"Because I know the numbers. You've sunk cash into development, PR, travel, and custom gear licensing. But your brand activation rate is below 8%. You're profitable, but only barely. And you're tired of fighting for arena nights with tech bros who think basketball is marketing cosplay."
Adrianna narrowed her eyes.
"She's intrigued," ATHENA said. "Push gently. But leave her control in the details, not the outcome."
Lucas smiled. "Here's the deal. You keep your chair, if you want. I won't touch your player pipeline. You keep media ops if they stay profitable. But the franchise decisions? The long game? That's me."
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "And what do I get, besides a gym teacher with a jawline?"
"An actual face behind the brand. A local hero who doesn't need flash to fill seats. A rebuild narrative that sells."
He paused. "And 40% of a bigger future. Or 20%, if you drag your feet."
Adrianna sat quiet for a long beat. Her stare turned into calculation.
Then she sipped, and smiled just slightly. "Send me the terms. I like a man who does his homework."
Lucas stood. "I like a woman who doesn't flinch at numbers."
"Well played," ATHENA whispered. "She'll test you later. But you've earned her attention."
Lucas glanced back once as he stepped away.
Adrianna was already watching him go.