The Welcome Party
The Collins mansion glowed that evening, its chandeliers blazing like suns.
Cars lined the driveway, polished to mirrors, each one announcing the arrival of the city's elites.
Inside, servants moved like shadows, refilling crystal glasses and adjusting velvet drapes. The Collins family spared no expense—this party was their attempt to prove they still belonged at the center of power.
Leon arrived last. He wore the same black suit from the rooftop dinner, the one tailored to silence rather than boast.
It wasn't flashy, but the way it clung to his shoulders and moved with him gave off an air few noticed consciously yet couldn't ignore.
The first voice that sliced through the crowd was Brandon's.
"Ah, the dishwasher made it!" Laughter rippled across the room. Guests turned, amused.
Brandon strolled forward, his glass of champagne tilting dangerously close to spilling. His smug grin widened as he looked Leon up and down.
Emily followed at his side, glittering in silver silk, her hair swept up like a queen ready for her coronation.
She smiled sweetly at the guests, then leaned close to whisper—loud enough for everyone to hear:
"He insisted on coming. I couldn't stop him. You know how…clingy, useless men can be."
More laughter.
Leon's face didn't change. He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging the insult the way one might acknowledge the weather.
"Good evening," he said simply, and walked into the party.
Some guests chuckled. Others, the sharper ones, frowned—because only a man who knew his worth could withstand such ridicule without flinching.
But the Collins family missed it.
They always missed it.
Wine and Daggers
The party swirled with music and chatter. Waiters carried trays of hors d'oeuvres, and businessmen compared watches worth more than houses.
Brandon made Leon his personal entertainment. At one point, he "accidentally" knocked into Leon, spilling red wine down his sleeve.
The crowd gasped, then roared with laughter when Brandon shouted:
"Oh no, forgive me! I thought this rag could only get cleaner with a splash!"
Emily giggled into her glass. "Brandon, be kind. He doesn't own another suit."
Cameras flashed—several socialites had pulled out their phones, eager to capture the humiliation for their private groups.
Leon calmly dabbed at his sleeve with a napkin. His voice was quiet, but it carried in the sudden hush:
"Wine stains are temporary. But reputations…" His eyes lifted to Brandon's, steady as stone. "…they last forever."
Brandon's smirk faltered. Just for a second.
But Emily swooped in, linking her arm through her brother's. "Ignore him.
He likes to pretend he's profound." She turned to the guests. "Shall we toast to real men—the ones who actually earn their keep?"
Glasses rose. Champagne sparkled. Leon took no glass, only sipped his water.
And in the corner of the room, a tall, silver-haired man observed him quietly.
His name was Victor Lang, a foreign investor with stakes across Asia. Unlike the others, he didn't laugh at Leon. His sharp eyes noted the composure, the way Leon's gaze missed nothing.
Lang's lips curved. He had seen men like this before—not parasites. Kings in hiding.
The Turning Point
As the evening deepened, the humiliation escalated. Emily arranged for Leon to be seated not at the head table but near the kitchen doors, where waiters bustled in and out.
A deliberate choice, one that sent whispers rippling among the guests.
But Leon didn't protest. He sat, hands folded, observing the fireworks from his shadowed corner.
Then the moment came.
A rival of the Collins family, Mrs. Zhao, approached the head table with a venomous smile. "I hear," she said loudly, "that Collins Group has lost its biggest project.
Tell me, Emily, how does it feel to fall from grace?"
The guests buzzed like wasps. Brandon sputtered, Emily forced a laugh—but it was brittle, fake.
Leon rose slowly from his seat. The motion was subtle, yet every eye turned to him.
He walked forward, calm, collected, until he stood between Emily and Mrs. Zhao.
For the first time that night, his voice carried authority.
"Respect, Mrs. Zhao," he said. "Even lions stumble. But beware the man you mock when he is quiet—he may rise higher than you imagine."
The words hung in the air, heavier than champagne, sharper than glass.
Mrs. Zhao blinked, thrown off balance. Emily hissed at Leon under her breath: "Sit down. You're embarrassing us!"
But the damage was done. The guests whispered—not mocking this time, but curious. Who was this man who spoke with such calm certainty?
Victor Lang's smile deepened. He leaned to his aide and murmured, "Find out everything about Leon Gray. Tonight."
Brandon, desperate to reclaim attention, sneered: "You hear that? Our dishwasher thinks he's a philosopher.
Don't worry, everyone—he'll be taking out the trash after the party!"
Laughter returned, but thinner now. Uneasy.
Because beneath the humiliation, a seed of doubt had been planted.
Leon simply returned to his seat, calm as ever, sipping his water.
The silent king had spoken once. That was enough.