Chapter 4

• Moiraine’s Mansion – Night of the Gala
• Descending the grand staircase like a queen stepping onto her battlefield, Moiraine glowed in a seamless gold gown. The fabric shimmered in soft spirals, hugging her curves like a second skin. She’d chosen gold for a reason—because once, long ago, Stephen had whispered that gold looked like it was made for her.
• A small reminder of a time when his lies still sounded sweet.
• At the bottom of the stairs, Stephen stood waiting, dressed to impress, Dihanna glued to his side. The moment he caught sight of Moiraine, all he could breathe out was—
• “Beautiful.”
• Moiraine smiled, serene and unreadable. “Thank you,” she replied, slipping her hand into his as they walked toward the waiting car outside.
• Behind them, Dihanna trailed like an afterthought—fuming, tight-lipped, her jealousy simmering. He didn’t even look at her. Didn’t even say a word.
• Moiraine glanced back and said sweetly, “Oh! I’m so sorry, Dihanna. I didn’t mean to ignore you. You look beautiful too.”
• Her tone was smooth as silk, but her eyes glinted like steel.
• Dihanna forced a smile, swallowing the bitter taste rising in her throat. “Come on,” she replied, voice laced with feigned cheer. “This will be the last night you two lovebirds get to see each other for a year.”
• The words dropped like bait—sharp, intentional. A subtle jab meant to remind Stephen of the role he needed to play… and to stab at Moiraine’s soft spot for him.
• She’d always believed Moiraine was easy to read, easy to hurt—especially when it came to Stephen.
• But tonight… Moiraine didn’t even flinch.
• Not a blink. Not a breath.
• That unshakable calm made Dihanna's skin crawl.
• She watched Moiraine carefully, searching for even a flicker of emotion—sadness, hesitation, anything—but just as her eyes narrowed in, Moiraine shifted her expression effortlessly… to one of soft, wistful sorrow. Before she could register it Stephen spoke.
• Stephen clapped his hands, impatiently breaking the thick tension.
• “Alright, enough of the chit-chat. Let’s get going,” he said coolly.
• The sleek black car waiting outside purred to life as the driver opened the doors. With Stephen and Moiraine in the back and Dihanna up front—right where she didn’t want to be—they sped off into the glowing night.
• At the gala…
• The gala was the kind of event whispered about behind velvet-gloved hands.
• Hosted at the illustrious Velinora Estate, a towering glass-domed venue lined with chandeliers and marble floors, it was an exclusive affair reserved for the elite: old money, young innovators, royalty, foreign dignitaries, and underground powerhouses—each one with secrets cloaked behind diamonds and silk.
• Guests arrived in luxury cars, cloaked in tailored suits and glittering gowns, flaunting wealth, influence, and ambition like it was cologne. Musicians played live classical arrangements, champagne flowed endlessly, and the scent of money and secrets hung heavy in the air.
• This wasn’t just a celebration.
• It was a battlefield of social power.
• A place where deals were born in whispers, alliances sealed with a dance, and empires could rise or fall based on a single conversation.
• Moiraine stepped out of the car and into the golden light like she owned the entire building.
• She did not need to command attention—she was attention.
• Stephen took her hand again as cameras flashed and heads turned. But the moment they stepped into the main ballroom, a familiar figure waved him down—an influential arms dealer from Russia—and like a trained dog, Stephen smiled, excused himself, and vanished into the crowd with a polite, “I’ll be right back, babe.”
• He didn’t even look back.
• Moiraine watched him go with a blank expression, letting the corners of her lips lift just enough to keep up appearances.
• Perfect.
• Now she could breathe.
• She wasn’t alone for long.
• “My diamond!” a deep, affectionate voice called out.
• She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in an all-black tuxedo, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, walking toward her with open arms.
• Ivan Luave.
• Her godfather. Her mentor. The only man alive she fully trusted.
• “Uncle Ivan,” she greeted warmly, embracing him.
• He chuckled. “Still glowing like a queen, I see. I told you gold was your color.”
• “You taught me well.”
• His eyes twinkled with something more tonight. Excitement, maybe? Mischief?
• Before she could ask, he stepped aside and gestured to the man standing just behind him.
• “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
• He moved with calm grace, shoulders squared, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy suit. His red hair was tousled just slightly, sky-blue eyes sharp and unreadable behind the coolness of a practiced expression.
• Dylan Luave.
• Moiraine kept her face perfectly neutral, her lips curving into a polite smile. But inside, she took him in fully—his presence, his aura, the subtle strength in the way he stood.
• And most of all, his eyes—they weren’t just looking at her. They were studying her. Like he’d been caught off guard and was trying not to show it.
• He hadn’t expected this.
• She wasn’t what he imagined.
• “Moiraine Sokolov,” Ivan beamed, placing a proud hand on her shoulder. “This is my grandson, Dylan Luave. My blood. My future.”
• She extended a hand gracefully.
• “Nice to meet you, Dylan.”
• For a second, he just looked at her hand—then took it gently, his voice low and calm, but undeniably captivated.
• “The pleasure’s mine.”
• Clearing his throat softly, the red-haired man bowed slightly, ever the gentleman.
• “This is Moiraine Sokolov, my goddaughter,” Ivan announced proudly, his voice echoing with authority.
• Dylan turned his full attention to her now. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said, taking her hand with firm, warm fingers.
• “Likewise,” she replied, her voice light and composed, even as she felt his gaze trace her every gesture.
• After exchanging pleasantries, Ivan smiled knowingly and gave Moiraine a wink. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Dylan—don’t embarrass me.”
• Before either of them could protest, he smoothly caught Dihanna’s wrist as she tried to edge closer.
• “Dihanna, darling. Come, I believe the ambassador’s wife was asking about your family.”
• Dihanna blinked, confused. “The ambass—” she began, but Ivan was already guiding her away like a father walking a child.
• Now they were alone.
• “So… what does Mr. Luave do?” Moiraine asked with playful formality.
• He chuckled softly, his lips twitching into a charming smile. “No need for the formalities. Just call me Dylan.”
• She smiled back, amused. “Alright then, Dylan. What do you do?”
• “Nothing too interesting,” he said modestly, hands tucked into his pockets again. “The Luave family handles export and import mostly. We also own a chain of deodorant and cosmetic lines across Europe and Asia… a bit of this and that.”
• “I see,” she replied, already knowing full well just how far-reaching the Luave empire was—but it was nice to hear him speak of it so simply. He didn’t boast. Didn’t flex. That was rare.
• He looked like he was about to ask her something in return, but a sudden voice cut through the room.
• “Ladies and gentlemen!” the host called. “Please gather around. It's time for the surprise game of the evening—a little tradition of ours.”
• A crowd began to form, and despite herself, Moiraine was swept in with Dylan beside her.
• The host continued, “This year, we’re spicing things up. A game of strategy and wit! The winner gets a personal assistant for six months—volunteered by the host of course.” Laughter echoed through the crowd.
• Stephen, now rejoining them, narrowed his eyes at the announcement.
• “Moiraine,” the host called out, “since you’re tonight’s co-honorary guest, we’d like you to participate—and choose your partner.”
• All eyes turned to her.
• She feigned surprise, then slowly turned her head toward Dylan. “Would you be my partner?”
• Dylan blinked, then smiled. “I’d be honored.”
• Stephen clenched his jaw.
• As the applause faded and champagne glasses clinked in celebration, Moiraine held her glass aloft, her smile the very picture of grace and charm. Dylan stood beside her, flustered yet intrigued, clearly unaware that this small victory had been carefully orchestrated.
• Across the room, Stephen watched with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His arm brushed against Dihanna’s as they stood shoulder to shoulder, but unlike before, she didn’t feel triumphant. She felt... cold.
• Everything had changed.
• And for the first time in a long while, Stephen Black—master manipulator and puppet string-puller—was no longer holding the strings.
• As Moiraine turned slightly to glance his way, their eyes met across the crowd.
• She raised her glass to him in a silent toast.
• He knew that look.
• He’d seen it once—right before she took down a rival family head in court without lifting a single weapon.
• This wasn’t just a game anymore.
• She was done playing.
• And for the first time…
• Stephen felt the weight of the empire he was trying to steal.
• The game—an elegant mix of puzzle-solving and improvisational trivia—began. Teams dropped like flies, and though Moiraine could have easily claimed victory herself, she subtly gave Dylan the winning edge.
• She played the fool with grace, just enough for him to carry the final round.
• “And the winner is... Mr. Dylan Luave!”
• Applause rang out.
• The host raised his glass. “As promised, your prize is a personal secretary for six months—volunteered by our dear Moiraine Sokolov herself!”
• The crowd gasped and laughed in delight. Dylan looked stunned. Moiraine only smiled and extended a hand.
• “Congratulations, boss.”
• Stephen’s fists clenched at his sides, his laughter hollow.
• She knew exactly what she was doing.
• And he could do nothing about it.