Chapter 655 – No Longer Valid
The gala started like every other over-decorated social event full of people who hated each other in glitter.
The Moonlight Gala was famous for its ridiculous opulence. The venue was a historic ballroom suspended magically over a waterfall cliff, with glass floors enchanted to shimr like starlight and floating chandeliers that adjusted brightness based on the perceived attractiveness of whoever walked beneath them.
Tonight, the chandeliers sparkled hard.
Diamonds, gowns, silk gloves and laughter, every step was a silent battle of posture and power. Enchanted perfu drifted in the air, delicate and lethal. Elites sipped gold-flecked wine and pretended they didn’t recognize each other from last month’s boardroom betrayal.
And into that glittering hell walked Vincent Albrecht.
Or rather, Lux Vaelthorn, as he pretended to be.
Vincent had gone all out.
More than usual. More than reasonable. He wore a deep obsidian velvet tux, custom-tailored to trace his fra with precision, slim lapels, sin-cut waist, even the cuffs matched Lux’s style. His hair had been blow-dried and styled with sea-salt mist and gel.
And then there was the buckle.
Yes.
Vincent had actually sewn a discreet buckle inside his trousers, carefully positioned to make his below look heavier. Fuller. More... legendary.
Because apparently, so of the won in the group chat had opinions. Loud ones.
That group chat, by the way, was one of his best works. A fake profile of a lonely housewife nad "Aunt Tilly," complete with gossip, gifs, and far too many eggplant emojis. He used it to infiltrate all the high-end circles. Housewives. Trophy girlfriends. Widows of scandal. Every dirty secret they shared went to him. Like an echo chamber of lust and spite.
It was disgusting.
It was also incredibly useful.
Vincent knew exactly who would be here tonight. What they wore. Who they fought with. Who they wanted to cheat with. And most importantly, who was desperate for attention.
He adjusted his cufflinks, platinum, obviously, and strode past the caras like he didn’t see them. Like he wasn’t aware they were there. Like mystery clung to him as naturally as cologne.
-Flash!
-Flash!
Whispers followed him. A few low gasps. Even one audibly whispered "That’s him." Perfect.
He didn’t look. Didn’t pause. Just kept walking like he was born on a catwalk.
Still... his brow twitched slightly.
’Why are there so many dia people tonight?’
Usually it was a few fashion columnists and tabloid socialites. But this? This felt like soone tipped them off. More flashes. More eyes.
It wasn’t normal.
But fine.
Let them watch.
Then he reached the front gate.
Two staff mbers stood there, in pressed formalwear to adjust to gala thes. Tonight’s pattern was black-gold with silver trim.
He smiled and handed them the invitation.
The woman took it delicately, her gloved fingers glowing with a verification barcode. The man beside her tapped a scanner device.
And then.
Her brows furrowed.
Vincent’s smile didn’t break. "Is there a problem?"
"Apologies, sir..." she said politely. "This invitation is no longer valid."
Vincent blinked. Then tilted his head. "That’s impossible. I was confird."
She glanced again, whispering to her partner. More scans.
"Could you check again?" Vincent said, still keeping that calm billionaire tone.
The man looked up, firm. "Sir. This invitation has been revoked. The na is flagged."
Vincent froze.
’Flagged?’
He bit down the curse in his throat. He couldn’t make a scene. Not here. Not yet. Not where people were watching. If he argued, if he made noise, soone would post it online in five seconds. His entire plan would implode.
Think fast. Think fast.
His eyes scanned the crowd. Past the velvet ropes. Past the glowing welco arch.
And then...
Her.
A woman. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Red dress. Thigh slit. Diamond bracelet. Blonde hair swept up like she practiced it all morning. With her husband. And more importantly, she recognized him.
Her lips parted slightly.
Oh. Right. She’d flirted with him yesterday at the night club.
What was her na again?
Didn’t matter.
He didn’t even rember turning her down. Just gave a polite nod and slipped out.
But she rembered.
He caught her gaze. Held it.
Then, very subtly, he pointed toward the restroom entrance tucked behind the reception hall arch.
She blinked.
Then smiled.
And excused herself from her husband’s side.
They t near the lavatory corridor.
The hallway was dimr, quieter. Soft music played from invisible speakers.
She leaned against the wall like she’d just stumbled into temptation.
"Well," she purred, "you do clean up very nicely."
Vincent smiled like sin. "Glad you noticed."
"You didn’t yesterday."
"I noticed," he said, stepping closer. "But you were busy. With that wine."
Her lashes fluttered.
He moved closer. Inches now. "Help ," he said softly.
She blinked. "Help?"
"I want in," he said. "But the invitation... minor issue. Staff confusion."
She smiled, slow and sharp. "And you want to escort you in?"
Vincent leaned in, his voice dropping. "You were hoping I’d talk to you. Now I’m begging."
"Mmm... I’m married."
He tilted his head. "And yet here you are."
She exhaled, flushed.
Vincent didn’t push. Just brushed his thumb along the side of her hand.
"I won’t make a scene," he said. "Just a quiet entrance. Afterward... we can talk. Alone. Maybe sowhere less... public."
Her pupils dilated.
He leaned in, barely touching her cheek with his lips. Just heat. Just suggestion.
"Say yes," he whispered.
She swallowed.
"...Fine," she breathed.
Then she turned, grabbed his arm, and walked back toward the entrance.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she had always co with him.
Vincent smiled behind her shoulder.
Just like that.
She whispered to the staff, giggling sothing about a miscommunication. Her husband was already halfway to the bar, none the wiser. The staff hesitated, then allowed them through.
Vincent stepped past the threshold, the velvet rope parting like curtains.
The music swelled.
Chandeliers sparkled above him.
Inside, the gala ca alive, jewels, champagne, soft jazz and golden laughter, all pulsing under the skin of luxury.
And Vincent?
Vincent had just walked into his own finale.
One last night.
One last target.
’Just wait, Mira Xianlong.’
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