The birthday banquet had not yet officially begun, yet the opening exchanges had already proven themselves to be intensely dramatic. Marcus couldn't suppress an inward sigh—a sound of mingled exasperation and resignation. The afternoon ahead promised to be complex, filled with social maneuvering and hidden agendas. He felt simultaneously exhausted by the prospect and hyperalert to the dangers it might contain.
He exhaled slowly, his composure carefully maintained, and found himself turning almost unconsciously to check Elena's condition. But the moment he turned, his gaze collided directly with hers—she had been looking toward him at precisely that same instant.
The bright autumn sunlight, fragmented by the dense ginkgo leaves overhead, scattered across her pale cheeks in fragments of gold. It transformed her eyes—those eyes that typically seemed like the frozen surface of a deep winter lake, cold and unreachable—into something entirely different. In this moment, they seemed to shimmer with the rippling quality of autumn water, luminous and strangely gentle, carrying an indescribable softness that made his breath catch.
Could it be... The thought arrived unbidden and with unexpected force. Because I defended her and Victoria just now, she's... smiling at me?
The notion made his heart skip its rhythm entirely. An unexpected warmth bloomed in his chest—something that felt dangerously like shyness, wholly inappropriate given the situation and the time.
He quickly looked away, feeling the awkwardness rising in his throat. His internal voice offered reassurance: This was nothing, really. Just a small gesture of protection. No need to read too much into it. Certainly no need to feel this way about it...
But when he allowed himself a cautious glance from the corner of his eye a moment later, the truth crystallized with painful clarity: he had misread the entire situation.
The focus of Elena's gaze had never been on him at all. The smile—if it had existed—was never intended for his benefit.
It was directed at Adrian Qi, who had arrived.
Adrian moved through the crowd with effortless grace, dressed with deliberate simplicity—nothing ostentatious, nothing designed to announce wealth or status. Yet somehow, that very restraint made the elegance of his bearing all the more evident. He smiled as he approached Elena's group, and the gesture seemed to carry genuine warmth.
The celebration that appeared to be a simple birthday gathering was, in reality, precisely what Marcus had observed: a concentration of the city's most influential figures. Most of the guests were well informed about Elena's circumstances—the circumstances that had transformed her into a figure of both fascination and pity within City's elite circles.
After delivering their meticulously chosen gifts to the reception table, most guests had rapidly migrated toward more strategically important social circles. They held champagne flutes, engaged in performative laughter, and worked with calculated precision to expand their networks—the real business of the day had nothing to do with celebrating Victoria's existence and everything to do with consolidating power and access.
The period before the formal luncheon service was designated as "free mingling." Long tables had been laden with exquisite French pastries, fresh fruit arrangements, and an apparently inexhaustible supply of champagne—the visual language of luxury deployed as social lubricant.
Elena and Victoria found themselves surrounded by various people, including Summer Chen, Adrian, and Dr. Rebecca, who had recently arrived. These individuals seemed to possess the comfortable familiarity of people who actually knew one another, and they conversed in low tones about recent events and social developments.
Marcus deliberately remained apart. He settled himself into a vintage redwood armchair positioned with excellent sightlines, holding a champagne glass that remained largely untouched. His eyes, however, were in constant motion—a surveillance system of remarkable precision. His gaze swept methodically across every face present, every detail of movement and positioning, without a trace of obvious interest or emotional response:
Guests in glittering attire. Relatives whose intentions varied wildly. Friends and family members of complex backgrounds and unclear loyalties. Service staff moving with practiced efficiency through the crowd. Drivers positioned casually throughout the space. Security personnel positioned in strategic corners, their presence deliberately subtle.
His mind worked with extraordinary speed, processing information, cataloguing faces and movements with the precision of someone trained to observe and retain.
According to the plot structure of the original novel, the conspiracy against Elena was destined to unfold during this very gathering. Before the critical moment arrived, someone would make modifications to something in Elena's immediate vicinity. Then, at an opportune moment, they would manufacture a reason to draw her toward the secluded lakeside—the location where the original novel had positioned its pivotal scene of danger and rescue.
He took a sip of the golden liquid in his glass. The cold wine slid smoothly down his throat, and he allowed his awareness to expand, searching for tells, for suspicious behavior, for anything that deviated from normalcy.
So far, the "villain" concealed in the shadows had revealed nothing obvious. No slip-ups. No careless movements that would expose their intentions.
Perhaps, Marcus theorized, the presence of his own vigilance was having a deterrent effect. Perhaps the conspiracy's architect had sensed his attention, his focus centered on Elena's safety, and had decided to hesitate before acting. Perhaps they were waiting for him to lower his guard, to become distracted, to allow an opening.
Marcus understood this intuition intimately. It was the instinct of "predators recognizing other predators"—the sharp awareness that characterized those operating outside conventional moral boundaries.
If he remained positioned as an immobile guardian, eternally watchful, the antagonist might never reveal themselves at all.
Constant vigilance, however, was not the most effective strategy.
His gaze pierced through the crowd of moving figures and settled on Elena, who sat surrounded by several people. She had tilted her head slightly, listening intently to Adrian speak, holding a small portion of golden-brown baked cheese in her delicate hands. Every so often, she would use an impossibly thin silver spoon—thinner than her smallest finger—to extract the tiniest amount of the cheese, place it on her tongue, and chew with methodical slowness.
The way she consumed food was remarkably refined. There was no hunger in it, no greed. Instead, there was an aesthetic appreciation, a deliberate awareness of each sensation. The memory surfaced unbidden: the little kitten he'd cared for in his previous life had eaten with precisely this quality—cautious, measured, possessed of a reserve that was somehow deeply endearing.
Marcus found himself swirling his wine glass absently, his attention fixed on her to the point where awareness of his surroundings began to fade.
Just then, Elena seemed to sense the weight of his regard. She looked in his direction, and their gazes met across the distance—an unintentional collision of vision and awareness.
Her eyes widened in visible surprise. Then, whether due to the interference of passing guests or through deliberate choice, she quickly averted her gaze. She pivoted slightly, pretending to examine a nearby pastry arrangement, leaving only the sight of her earlobe—faintly flushed with color.
Marcus felt a small surge of satisfaction before his attention was interrupted by a firm hand clapping against his shoulder and a familiar voice reaching his ear from behind:
"Marcus! Finally found you. Hiding here enjoying the peace and quiet?"
He turned to see Devon Zhang, who had apparently arrived at some point during the afternoon's early stages. Standing beside Devon was a woman of striking appearance.
She was dressed with confident sensuality and boldness. Her figure was voluptuous and undeniably provocative—the kind of body that generated unconscious stares from anyone in its vicinity. Her hair fell in glamorous waves, styled to frame her face with sophisticated artistry. Her lips were painted in fiery red, and her smile conveyed absolute confidence and sexual awareness. She was, quite literally, like a perfectly ripe chili pepper—hot, spicy, impossible to ignore.
"Marcus, I'd like you to meet someone," Devon said enthusiastically, his arm settling around Marcus's shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie. "This is Scarlett Chen. Producer Chen. She's quite well-known in entertainment industry circles."
So Devon had actually followed through. The matter of connecting Marcus with entertainment industry contacts—something Marcus had asked him to arrange previously—had clearly received Devon's full attention. The efficiency was genuinely impressive.
Marcus felt a surge of gratitude and quickly arranged his features into an expression of appropriate politeness. He extended his hand toward Scarlett Chen in greeting:
"Producer Chen, it's a genuine pleasure to meet you. I've heard considerable things about your work."
"Mr. Marcus, hello," Scarlett Chen replied, her voice carrying the particular husky magnetism characteristic of mature, confident women. She extended her hand and shook his with a grip that conveyed both softness and firmness. "Devon mentions you quite frequently. I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance."
After the initial pleasantries and a brief handshake, Marcus—motivated by the practical need to advance his stunt double career—quickly extracted his phone. He and Scarlett exchanged WeChat contact information, Marcus experiencing a distinct pleasure at the tangible progress being made. The banquet, at least, was yielding concrete professional benefits.
Not far distant, Elena—who had been discreetly monitoring the interaction through her peripheral vision—absorbed the entire sequence of events. She observed Marcus and the Sexy female producer engaged in animated conversation. She watched as they exchanged contact information, their interaction suggesting genuine chemistry and professional interest.
Her lips curved downward almost imperceptibly. Her eyes darkened. The shift was minute—barely visible to anyone not specifically watching for signs of emotional change—yet it was present.
With calculated subtlety, she crooked one finger, silently signaling to Victoria, who was sitting nearby and smirking to herself with barely suppressed amusement.
The plan would proceed exactly as originally designed.
Victoria, who had been observing the surrounding crowd with apparent innocent curiosity, received her sister's signal. She suddenly raised the champagne glass in her hand, making a show of intending to drink. But at the crucial moment, her wrist executed what appeared to be an accidental twist—a small, careless movement that caused the entire glass of liquid to splash across her expensive dress in a dramatic arc.
"Oh no! It's so wet! So cold!"
Victoria immediately seized her wet collar with both hands, her small mouth forming a pout, whimpering, looking as if she was about to cry.
"It's fine, don't panic, sister," Elena said quickly, her voice carrying maternal reassurance. She raised her voice deliberately, projecting it across the crowd: "Sophia! Quickly, please take my sister upstairs to change into dry clothes."
The surrounding guests, drawn by this minor mishap, turned to look and engaged in low whispers of sympathetic concern.
Sophia, the household's longtime caretaker, soon squeezed through the assembled crowd. She moved with practiced care and gentleness, carefully supporting the distressed Victoria, and led her through the main hall toward the staircase ascending to the second floor.
Marcus had just completed the WeChat exchange with Producer Chen. As he looked up from his phone, he observed the distant crowd stirring in response to Victoria's spilled drink. Multiple guests had gravitated toward Elena's wheelchair, expressing their concerns.
In that crucial instant—when the crowd's attention was fragmented and visual lines of sight were obstructed—his sharp eyes detected something that sent his entire nervous system into high alert.
A pair of hands. They seemed to move with deliberate casualness, yet their movements were rapid and purposeful. They fumbled briefly at the rear portion of Elena's wheelchair—the section where most people wouldn't think to look, where modifications could be made with minimal likelihood of detection.
A waiter dressed in the standard black and white uniform was executing this maneuver. Marcus caught only a glimpse of the man's departing back as he moved quickly away from the scene, but it was enough. In that fractional moment of exposure, Marcus had observed the waiter's hands twist something—some small mechanism positioned on the wheelchair's frame.
Alarm bells erupted throughout Marcus's mind. This was it. This was the beginning of the conspiracy.
He immediately set down his champagne glass with deliberate slowness, offered a hurried apology to Devon and Scarlett .—"Excuse me for just one moment"—and then pushed through the crowd with purposeful urgency, moving to follow the retreating figure.
"Hey! Hey, Marcus! Where are you going?" Devon's voice called from behind him, confused and curious. Devon, intrigued by this sudden departure, began following as well.
The waiter moved with remarkable speed, navigating the villa's interior layout with obvious familiarity. He executed a series of turns—two, three corners—and then disappeared into a corridor that led toward the villa's interior areas, away from the public reception spaces.