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Henry knew those nas—not because he had nothing better to do than research who Arica's truly wealthy were, preparing to show up at their doors in a mask to scrounge for favors if he ever went hungry.
No, it was from accompanying Audrey Hepburn at a UNICEF fundraising gala in New York. In such charity circles, it was unavoidable to learn the nas of the great philanthropists who gave generously.
So nas weren't even on the official guest list, but because of their renown in philanthropy, there was always the chance they might arrive uninvited. So the PR company's prep notes always included them.
Henry, for his part, had made sure to display just the right amount of his "super-assistant" skills—drawing on the lessons Old Tom had once shared during their ti in Alaska. In Arica, there were countless perfectly legal and convenient avenues to get things done… provided you knew them.
This travel arrangent, for example, was simple: just knowing the United Airlines counter number at LAX to reserve tickets ahead of ti, and calling the rental car company at Washington Dulles to pre-book a car with their arrival ti noted.
Two easy phone calls, and their journey smoothed out completely—no queuing at counters, no waiting around for vehicles to be shuffled.
Givenchy, of course, had contacted their hosts beforehand and ntioned their approximate arrival. Naturally, the invitation to dinner followed.
That alone said a lot: when you could casually drop by the ho of one of Arica's "invisible billionaires" and be received as an honored guest, your stature was no ordinary thing. Even Audrey Hepburn herself might not have enjoyed that privilege.
Still, Givenchy hadn't co empty-handed. He picked up a bottle of Louis XIII cognac at the airport—a French spirit costing thousands. Compared to a fine bottle one could buy for a few dozen dollars, this extravagant liquor was staggering to Henry. A Kryptonian who had once worked on a crab boat thought grimly: An entire season's work wouldn't buy many bottles of this stuff.
As planned, Henry drove them to Oak Spring Farm before nightfall.
It wasn't at all the kind of estate he had imagined—no guards posted every few steps, no fortress-like presence. Just a farmhouse with history in its bones, and a sense of understated dignity.
Its style wasn't the flashy modern "minimalist" trend that claid to be design but often resulted in bizarre, impractical spaces.
Thinking about it, Henry realized his stereotype of Western mansions ca from movies—those South Arican drug lords, surrounded by ard guards and high walls. That was their trade. These people, however, dealt in legitimate businesses. They had security and discreet caras, yes, but no need for constant, gun-toting vigilance.
Paul and Rachel llon themselves stood at the front door to welco their guests. As the car rolled to a stop, the llons' attendants opened the door for Givenchy, the fashion world's grand figure.
Henry, however, looked around uncertainly. Where was he supposed to park? When one of the staff approached his side of the car, he asked politely, "Excuse , where should I leave the car?"
"Sir, just leave it to us. You needn't trouble yourself."
"Ah, well… I'm just an assistant. There's no need to go to such lengths," Henry replied awkwardly. He wasn't familiar with the etiquette in hos like this. Fundraising galas were one thing, but the customs of visiting soone's private residence were another matter entirely.
The attendant, however, remained courteous. "Once inside, everyone is a guest. Please don't worry." And since Henry was at the wheel, not in the passenger seat, there was no attempt to open his door for him.
Feeling very much like a bumpkin, Henry climbed out nervously and handed the keys over.
Yet in that brief mont, he noticed sothing unusual: the attendant bore scales on his forearms and the backs of his hands. A mutant. His exact abilities were unclear, but clearly, even the llons' household staff included such people.
anwhile, at the entrance, Givenchy exchanged pleasantries with the couple. Turning back, he called, "Henry, co here. I'll introduce you." Updates are released by novelFɪre
When Henry stepped forward, Givenchy said, "This is Mr. Paul llon, and this is Mrs. Rachel Lambert llon."
The old-money couple carried their aristocratic presence with ease—no awkwardness, no neglect of personal care. Compared to Europe's nobility, they lacked only the titles. But in terms of comfort and privilege, they matched or surpassed.
Unlike the arrogance of soone like Tony Stark, there was no haughtiness in them—only genuine kindness. To live this long, in such stability and security, one might not be a saint, but one was certainly shrewd.
"Good day, sir, madam. I am Henry Brown, assistant to Miss Audrey Hepburn."
Henry made no move to offer a card or extend his hand. The gulf in status was too great. As a junior, it wasn't his place to presu until the elders made a gesture first.
And truthfully, Henry wasn't eager to deal with such people. Power and privilege were magnets for trouble.
In their eyes, he was nothing more than Hepburn's proxy. Givenchy was the true peer who could speak with them. Henry was content to remain invisible—just as he had done at countless galas: listen, don't speak, and act as though you don't exist until addressed directly.
Sure enough, the llons treated him without disdain or hostility, but the sense of distance was unmistakable—a chasm of class that could not be bridged.
Henry didn't mind. He was just the driver, the ticket-booker. Nothing more.
Paul llon turned warmly to Givenchy: "Co, let's talk over dinner. Knowing you were coming, I had our chef prepare sothing special to honor your visit."
Givenchy chuckled. "I've heard more than one friend rave about your chef's cooking. Tonight, I finally get to taste it myself."
As the two n walked ahead, Rachel Lambert did not neglect Henry. She gently linked arms with him and guided him inside, asking, "And how is Miss Hepburn?"
Unsure how much to reveal, Henry rembered their visit was for a request the llons would eventually learn about anyway. So he answered honestly: "She had surgery yesterday. It went very smoothly. She's now recovering at Cedars-Sinai."
"Oh? What illness, if I may ask?"
"A rare form of appendix cancer. Neither Switzerland nor New York hospitals could diagnose it. Thankfully, the doctors at Cedars-Sinai managed to treat it successfully."
"God bless the good-hearted," Rachel said softly. She was likely older than Hepburn, yet in excellent health. Her words carried a simple, sincere blessing.
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