Ch. 67
The invitation wasn't labeled as a party.
Officially, it was a National Economic Infrastructure Gala—an annual closed-door gathering hosted by a consortium of the country's most influential boards.
Chairmen of conglomerates. Heads of state-backed corporations.
Long-standing political families. Quiet investors whose names never reached the media but moved the economy with a single signature.
That was why security was tight.
No press.
No influencers.
No unnecessary faces.
Only people who belonged.
The event was held at Hotel 888, occupying its largest grand ballroom and three adjoining halls. Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations overhead, reflecting off marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Soft classical music played—subtle, expensive, intentional.
Selene walked beside her grandfather as they entered.
She could feel it immediately.
The weight of attention.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But sharp.
People turned—not because she was flashy, but because she was new. Politics might have been new to her.
But pressure wasn't.
Tonight, she wore a black knee-length dress, high-necked and sheer at the collar, elegant rather than provocative.
The fabric followed her curves naturally, understated yet impossible to ignore.
Her hair was neatly tied into a bun, exposing her neck, her posture straight and composed.
Her makeup was light—appropriate for her age, but refined enough to match the room.
She didn't look like someone overwhelmed by her first major appearance. She looked like someone who belonged—quietly.
Her grandfather, dignified and calm, greeted familiar faces with practiced ease. A nod here. A handshake there. Short conversations layered with meaning beneath polite smiles.
"This is the kind of gathering where alliances are tested," he murmured quietly to Selene as they walked. "Deals aren't signed here—but intentions are revealed."
Selene listened carefully. Around them were heirs and heiresses—some younger than her, others seasoned enough to already sit at their family's tables of power.
Businessmen discussed infrastructure bids in low voices.
A few artists were present as well—patrons of culture backed by old money, invited not for fame, but for influence.
This wasn't about celebration. It was about positioning. She noticed how people subtly assessed one another—glances lingering on body language, on who stood beside whom, on who was invited this year. And how she noticed their eyes lingered on her—not lingering in admiration, but curiosity.
Her grandfather glanced at her briefly, approval hidden in his eyes. He hadn't brought her here just to accompany him.
He brought her here so people would see her.
"Ha! Who needs a grandson when I have such a beautiful and brilliant granddaughter?" he boasted to himself.
The low murmur of conversations slowly faded when the lights dimmed. A spotlight settled on the stage.
The host stepped forward, voice polished and practiced, welcoming everyone to the evening's gathering. What followed were formalities—introductions, acknowledgments, and a brief overview of the program.
Then came the opening remarks.
The man onstage—one of the country's most prominent political figures, rumored to be running in the upcoming presidential election—smiled as he addressed the crowd.
He thanked the guests for attending, expressing gratitude to the business leaders, heirs, heiresses, and officials whose presence alone carried influence.
"And of course," he continued, his tone turning appreciative, "I would also like to extend my sincere thanks to Mr. Klein, for allowing us to use part of his private security detail during this campaign period."
Polite applause rippled through the hall.
Selene's brows arched slightly.
Klein?
The name struck something sharp and immediate in her mind—far too familiar to ignore. Her gaze drifted instinctively toward the front rows.
And there—her breath paused for half a second.
He sat comfortably among the elite, posture relaxed, expression unreadable yet confident. The same man she and Ethan had met at the hospital a week ago. Selene felt a flicker of confusion stir beneath her calm exterior.
What's his relationship with the man on stage?
The question lingered—but she didn't dwell on it.
Not yet.
Tonight wasn't about answers.
Her focus shifted as her eyes scanned the room once more, searching carefully among the distinguished guests.
She was here for one reason.
To find Liana's parents.
Before Selene could fully get lost in the crowd, a tall, sharp-featured man in a tailored suit approached her grandfather's table with purposeful steps. The murmurs around them didn't faze him; his confidence radiated naturally, the kind that commanded attention without raising his voice.
He extended his hand first, his tone polite yet assertive.
"Good evening, Mr. Valen. I'm Amando Ryver. I believe we haven't met formally."
"Ah, Mr. Ryver, a pleasure. Allow me to introduce you—my granddaughter, Selene Valen." Her grandfather rose, smiling, and shook his hand firmly.
Selene nodded politely, keeping her composure. Amando Ryver's eyes flicked to her, briefly assessing, before returning to her grandfather.
"Miss Valen, I've heard good things. It's nice to finally meet you in person."
Selene offered a polite smile, her mind racing.
Ryver...?
She studied his face carefully, noting features that triggered her memory.
Could this be Raze's father? She didn't dare ask aloud—her grandfather was still engaged in the formal greeting.
"Please, sit," her grandfather gestured, signaling the start of their discussion.
Selene stayed standing for a moment, carefully observing the interaction. She maintained her polite demeanor, all while thoughts flickered through her mind.
When the conversation naturally began to wind down, and her grandfather focused on the formalities with Mr. Ryver, Selene excused herself.
"Please excuse me for a moment," she said, nodding to both men before stepping toward the hallway.
The moment she turned the corner near the girls' restroom, she nearly collided with someone moving in the opposite direction.
She immediately apologized but stopped midway, her words catching in her throat as recognition struck.
"I'm sorry—"
The waiter froze for a fraction of a second, looking up.
"Selene."