Chapter 2 - The Crimson Gala
Three weeks later, the grand ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel glittered under twenty crystal chandeliers. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, dry-aged beef, and the manufactured warmth of people who traded in corporate charity as a form of social currency.
Richard stood near the dais, holding a glass of sparkling water he had no intention of drinking. Around him, venture capitalists, tech founders, and society elites buzzed like well-dressed hornets. They offered him smooth, rehearsed condolences, their eyes flickering with a mixture of morbid curiosity and relentless ambition.
"Richard, old man," whispered Harrison Vance, CEO of a rival semiconductor firm, clapping a heavy hand on Richard's shoulder. "Terrible what happened with the kids. Truly tragic. But hey, adversity builds character, right? Speaking of which, about that supply chain partnership we discussed..."
Richard didn't blink. He slowly turned his head, fixing Harrison with a stare so cold and vacant that the other man instinctively stepped back, clearing his throat and disappearing into the crowd.
At the edge of the ballroom, surrounded by a suffocating cloud of polite pity, Claire sat beside Leo and Lila’s custom motorized wheelchairs. The twins wore matching navy blue velvet jackets, their small legs rigid inside the hated braces. People looked at them with that specific expression Richard had come to loathe—a sickening blend of condescension and horror disguised as empathy.
Then, Richard saw him.
He wasn't part of the guest list. He didn't belong in the gilded hall of marble pillars and velvet drapes.
Standing near a towering mahogany pillar by the service entrance was a boy of no more than eight years old. He wore an oversized, threadbare wool coat that dragged near his ankles, scuffed canvas shoes with no socks, and a mop of unruly, dust-covered hair. His face was thin, his cheekbones sharp, and his skin pale from too many nights spent sleeping under freeway overpasses and subway grates.
While everyone else in the room stared at Leo and Lila with pity or calculated indifference, the boy wasn't looking at them that way at all.
He was watching them with a quiet, terrifying intensity. His dark eyes held a depth that didn't belong to a child. It was the look of someone who had stared into the abyss of human suffering and survived.
A sudden, reckless surge of bitterness and rage boiled up inside Richard’s throat. The champagne, the fake smiles, the corporate sharks circling his empire, the helpless doctors, the silent accusations in Claire’s eyes—it all converged into a single, ugly spike of fury.
Richard raised his voice, cutting cleanly through the polite hum of conversation across the grand hall.
"Listen, kid," Richard called out, his voice sharp and carrying across the polished floor. "Heal my twins and I’ll adopt you."
A ripple of nervous, high-society laughter spread through the room. People exchanged amused glances, assuming it was a cynical billionaire's dark joke about the absurdity of modern miracles.
Claire turned her head sharply, her eyes widening in absolute horror. "Richard! Have you lost your mind?"
Richard froze, the words hanging heavy in the air. He knew instantly that he had crossed a line, that he had weaponized an innocent child's misery to lash out at a world he couldn't control. Pride, thick and stubborn as armor, locked his jaw. He refused to take it back.
May you like
Across the room, the homeless boy did not flinch. He did not smile, nor did he look away.
Instead, he pushed off the mahogany pillar and began to walk across the expanse of imported Italian marble.
