Chapter 3 - The Grand EntranceThe Grand Emerald Ballroom was a cathedral of manufactured success. Crystal chandeliers cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, casting a golden glow over clusters of well-dressed thirty-somethings holding champagne flutes and exchanging inflated stories about corporate promotions, luxury vacations, and picture-perfect marriages.
Damen was in his element. Stationed near the open bar with a group of old college fraternity brothers, he was holding court, gesturing animatedly with one hand while Nikki hung onto his other arm, smiling her best pageant smile.
"So I told the board, if you want my division to hit those targets, you need to give me autonomous control," Damen was loudly recounting to a nodding listener just as the double doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open.
A hush didn't fall instantly—that only happens in movies. But a subtle, spreading ripple of recognition and whispering moved through the crowd as Jackson Vance stepped into the room.
Jackson commanded attention without uttering a single word. His reputation as a ruthless, brilliant corporate strategist preceded him in Hanoi business circles, and seeing him at an alumni gala—a man who traditionally despised such networking fluff—turned heads immediately. But it wasn't just Jackson who stopped the room.
It was the woman on his arm.
I walked in beside him, my posture straight, my chin held high, wearing the midnight-blue silk gown that seemed to absorb the candlelight and reflect pure power. I wasn't the tired, overworked legal associate who spent her weekends balancing household budgets while her husband played video games. I was a sophisticated, untouchable presence, draped in quiet luxury and walking with a man who made billionaires look twice.
Heads turned. Whispers erupted.
“Isn’t that Jackson Vance?”
“Who’s that with him? Is that… wait, isn't that Damen’s wife?”
“I thought Damen was with some hot young chick over by the bar…”
Across the room, Damen’s laughter abruptly died in his throat. He turned around, expecting to see a waiter or a late arrival, and instead locked eyes with me.
The color drained from his face so fast it looked like a magic trick. His glass of scotch slipped an inch in his grip, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim. Beside him, Nikki froze, her frozen smile cracking as she recognized the designer gown I wore—the one she thought she had exclusive dibs on, except mine was an original haute couture piece while hers was a cheap knockoff from a local warehouse.
Jackson and I didn't rush. We walked slowly, deliberately, toward the center of the ballroom, acknowledging acquaintances with polite, cool nods. Several prominent corporate partners and senior attorneys from competing firms immediately broke away from their conversations to intercept Jackson, eager for a word.
"Jackson! Good to see you, man. I didn't know you were an alumnus of this department," said Mr. Hung, a senior partner at one of the city's top financial institutions, stepping directly into Damen’s line of sight.
Jackson stopped, shaking Mr. Hung’s hand with easy charm. "I try to keep my past quiet, Mr. Hung, but tonight I had a very special reason to attend. Allow me to introduce my companion, Carissa Vance."
Mr. Hung blinked, looking from Jackson to me, then across the room toward Damen, whose jaw was practically unhinged. "Vance? Wait… Carissa, aren't you married to—"
"Damen?" I interrupted smoothly, my voice carrying cleanly across the quietening circle of listeners. "Oh, Damen is around here somewhere. He brought a guest tonight, too. My younger sister, actually. Isn't that generous of him?"
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The double entendre hung in the air like a poisoned dart. Mr. Hung’s eyebrows shot up, his legal instincts picking up on the subtext instantly.
Before anyone could press further, Jackson steered us forward, right toward the bar where Damen and Nikki were standing like statues caught in headlights.
