Rage against the heavens (PJO SI as a human with the inspired Forge)

I was in the workshop again. The late afternoon sunlight danced through dusty beams before it finally tired and drifted into shadows. The place looked like a half-laboratory, half-chaotic design studio, with metal scraps, half-sketched patterns, and worn-looking tools scattered across every surface.

It felt in a way like a strange mechanical playground, almost like a snapshot in the real world to my own restless mind, to be frank.

And at the centre of it all, spread across a broad wooden table, were the garments and adornments that Beryl designed but I brought into being with Adaptive Material Synthesis—fabric and platinum weaves, colorless diamond accents, each piece born of what chaotic creativity that clearly existed in the mind of my older sister. I had not expected it to be honest. They were proof in a way that if Beryl hadn't been an actress, she could have in my opinion easily become a fashion designer.

I touched one of the finished items: a jacket of slick, obsidian-colored fabric that she planned for me to wear. Beryl had scrawled a dozen sketches, half-lost in the margins of random pages. It took a long time talking until we settled on a style reminiscent of a formal suit jacket but with a twist of modern sleekness.

She wanted the silhouette to be sharp, almost futuristic, yet understated enough that I wouldn't look like some sci-fi extra. Using adaptive material synthesis, I had spun in existence a cloth that seemed to shimmer faintly when it caught the light, as though tiny metallic threads ran through it.

The interior was lined with a subdued silverish material—platinum-infused fibers, obviously more for flair than any real necessity. Still, I knew it would comfortable, breathable. One of the gifts of AMS is that it obeyed the instructions I whisper in thought, reweaving molecules to form whatever I imagine, so long as I supplied the right building blocks. It could not be imperfect because I hadn't imagined imperfection.

Next to it, a matching pair of trousers: slender, tapered, not skin-tight but clearly tailored. Beryl insisted on a certain line at the ankles—slightly cropped, revealing the top of a polished black shoe. She said something about it being "effortlessly suave," whatever the hell it means. I had of course rolled my eyes at her choice of words.

In return, she just slapped my arm and teased that I never understood fashion. I wonder if Beryl had noticed that it had been the first time since she reappeared back in my life that I saw her with a true genuine smile, that she didn't seem haunted.

On the same table, for her, what she decided was a dress that took what had felt like hours of argument (or lively negotiation, as she called it) before we found common ground because there was no chance In hell that I would let her go dressed as a character who seemed to come straight from cyberpunk or Zaun to the dinner. It's not that it would not look but it would most likely at best make things way harder than they needed to be for me or at worst give heart attacks to the people at the dinner.

 This made me think that maybe Thalia being how she was in canon was maybe more genetic than behavioural, something canon her probably would have hated to know.

Eventually, we had agreed that I would shape a piece that would fuse or at least try traditional elegance with kinda a near-punk edge: a sleek gown in a hue reminiscent of midnight, hugging her torso and hips before flaring slightly around the knees.

The neckline could be called daring, dipping low enough to command attention, yet Beryl insisted we incorporate subtle platinum thread along the edges, almost forming a circuit-like pattern that should glint under direct light. There's was also a small slit along one thigh.

She had chosen to dub it the "eclipse dress". I know it sounded cringe but it was way better than what she originally chose. All I would say is that she was not better when it came to naming things than a certain blue-eyed, blond-haired leader in Naruto.

I watched the overhead lamp flicker across it and see how the material seemed to devour the light around it, except for those threads that glimmered like shiny cuttlefishes. 

Jewelry came next in my inspection: she had conceptualized ten designs, carefully drawn with little manic scribbles in the margins of a battered notebook.

She insisted we not overdo it, that we should remain just on the line between refined and memorable. The gall of it as if since the beginning, it was not me trying to stop her from doing too much.

I had taken her sketches, fed the details into AMS, adjusted certain structural points, and conjured the final pieces in platinum and black diamond. Now, they lied in neat rows like precious relics.

I pick up the first, a slender band of platinum that seems to swirl as if shaped in a single sweeping motion. Seven colourless diamonds nest asymmetrically, each gem flush with the metal so no prong stands out. It was meant for my wrist. The goal while wearing it was to project an aura that was subtle but confident, as if to say I don't need to brandish a heavy chain to be noticed. When the little things were the ones to matter, you could not allow yourself to not do enough.

Like Beryl had said to me about it: "You're not exactly the flamboyant , brother. This is why this is the perfect thing for you—just enough gleam to remind folks you're not a dull lamp, but no gaudy nonsense." She wasn't wrong.

Then I shift my gaze to the Earrings, a pair she had designed for herself. They dangled from slender hooks, each culminating in a cluster of colourless diamond petals arranged like tiny blossoms. The marquise cuts were angled to reflect a slight glimmer at the edges. Beryl's face was already captivating, what happened with Zeus was enough of a proof of that. The goals of these blooms was just to frame her face, kinda added what could be a hush of mystery, something that would attract attention but in a discreet way.

Next is the Pendant designed for Beryl's neckline—likely to sit right at the dip of the dress's front. A platinum teardrop, elongated like a blade's silhouette, containing a single rose-cut colourless diamond that appears suspended in midair. The geometry of the piece was according to my sister intended to be minimal but intense.

I turned my gaze toward two identical rings. They were the born from a unisex design: a crescent plate of platinum perched atop the finger, holding six colourless diamonds in a neat formation. We were already matching. That was the good after all and the rings were the cherry on top.

She had also designed a choker. It waited on a stand. It was narrow mesh of platinum, unbelievably soft to the touch, with one perfectly round colourless diamond at the midpoint.

There were more items in that array: the a Brooch for me, a small platinum disc with a half-ring of colourless diamonds, kinda reminiscent of an eclipse sliding over the moon.

There was also the a Bracelet, a coil-shaped piece for Beryl's wrist, each open end set with a colourless diamond eye, a Necklace for her again latter and to finish a Onyx Crown Hairpin, kinda a filigree half-crown that would go in her hair.

Most if not all pieces were made of colourless diamonds and Platinum and it was done on purpose. Platinum was for one way rarer than gold which made wearing pieces made of it more than expensive. I don't think I needed to explain about diamonds. All of that to say that Beryl and I would be going wearing that bought would at least cost in the 60000$. Money attracted money. People treated you very differently when they knew you were wearing almost if not more the entire median annual salary in the United States.

There was kinda only one thing left to do. Dress up for the dinner and hope that all of this wasn't for nothing.

*scene*

Y'all know the phrase the clothes make the man? Well dressed to the nines, I felt as if I was I'm top of the world. I was looking into a mirror. My suit jacket glimmered in the overhead light of the hallway, the black fabric revealing faint metallic threads with each shift of my torso. The Cuff circledbmy wrist, each colourless diamond subdued yet impossible to ignore if the onlooker pays close attention. I felt as if the world was my oyster or in other words, I felt as if I had the exaggerated swagger of a…really, really, what do you think was going to follow? All of that to say that I felt like abillion dollars

Beryl emerges wearing her dress. It fitted her form so snugly it seemed grown from her own silhouette. The platinum threads at the edges highlight her figure without overshadowing it. Around her neck sits the Silent Thunder Choker, the central diamond resting just below her collarbone. Her hair is pinned partly up, leaving some strands to frame her face, and into that arrangement she's pinned the Onyx Crown Hairpin, five colourless diamonds forming a small half-crown above her ear. She looks regal, fierce, not at all what she looked look when she knocked at my door two days ago.

We got into my car. The engine hummed softly, merging with the dusk outside. As I drove us toward the Huntington manor, the city lights reflected off the windshield, dancing fleetingly across Beryl's face. She was fiddling with the ring on her finger—spinning it round and round. I shoot her a sideways glance, asking, "Nervous?"

"Always." She cracks a grin, half-laughing. "But I like nervous. Means I'm alive, right?" Her voice wavers in that moment, teetering between bravado and real anxiety.

I let out a faint exhale, eyes on the road. "They're just people with money. We can handle them," I said , gripping the steering wheel tighter.

"Yeah, and a pack of hyenas are 'just animals with teeth,' right?" She tries a short, ironic laugh, then stares at her reflection in the side mirror. "Let's see who they devour first."

"Sometimes, because of the way things are, I don't want to do anything because there is something inside, one that feels like a curse, one that feels like a mangled root telling me what would be the point of it all?" I revealed to her.

"I never would have thought I would hear something like this coming from you," She whispered.

"I am human, I am just like you Beryl. Maybe I don't show it but I spiral easily when things don't get in the way I want them to be. When it happens, I can not help but think that I am better than this, that I should be better this, that all the reasons, all the excuses I could give for why things are not the way I wish them to be are utterly pointless."

"I…didn't know you felt this way. I am sorry Alex. Maybe if I had been…better, maybe… I mean." She Sighed, words stuck in her throat.

"It's Okay Beryl. I was not telling you this to make you feel worse to be frank. I think I kinda lost my train of thoughts but what I wanted to say was that it's normal to have doubts, to hesitate, to not feel confident. I also learnt that you trying is the only thing you can control. Whether you wish it or not, a part of you will always find itself lacking, others will. Maybe they would be right to think so but at least, you could tell yourself in the end that you've tried right, that you're trying for your daughter, for your family and maybe that's all that counts."

"Trying huh? Sound like self-motivating bullshit. Worst, that's probably right. Alex." Our gazes crossed as I turned to look at her. She looked less high-strung than she did. "Thanks for everything."

I gave her half a smile before focusing back on the road "We're family aren't we?" I told her. Family meant accepting your kin both at their best and their worst, their differences, supporting them and shielding them when needed or at least that's what I had hoped in my first life It meant. It was a shame that my family had shown me exactly how wrong I was.

We fell silent for a while after. I may be living in the same neighbourhood than the Huntimgtons but while they were my neighbours, the portals and opening of gheei house were on the other side and with how big their home was, it took way longer than needed to be.

We were approaching the openings of Huntington manor. Speaking of the Huntington's manor, it looked exactly as one might imagine from an opulent family, one that that was old money, that had a net worth in the billions of dollars: pale, gently aged stone with wide windows fortified by black iron grilles. A tall hedge enclosed the front lawn, manicured to near-sculpted perfection. The driveway was a swirl of interlocking pavers that arcs toward double doors that gleam under subtle lights. Above, a short balcony jutted out, edged with wrought iron filigree.

All those who claimed old money is subtle about its wealth don't know really know what they are talking about. One visit to the Huntington's manor was all that would be needed to disabuse one of this notion.

They say the truly rich keep it quiet. Let me be clear: there's a difference between wearing diamond-studded everything and commissioning a centuries-old Venetian mosaic for the foyer just because you can. The Huntingtons, for instance, might not cover themselves in sparkling stones from head to toe but a single glance at their expansive manicured grounds—every bush precisely shaped, every rose bush lavishly pampered was kinda a reminder of what my mom in my past life had liked to say, that subtlety was often just a more polished display of extravagance.

I'm not one to pay attention to gossips but I recall hearing a story that I once heard, the one about how Charlotte's father flew in a rare type of orchid from halfway across the globe just to ensure the estate's greenhouse boasted a flower that no one else in L.A. had. The cost supposedly soared into tens of thousands. All so they could enjoy a fleeting bloom for a single week. That was not discreet living; it's opulence worn like a casual shrug.

Beryl breathes out, lips taut. She was scanning the bright windows. I drove up to the gates, where a uniformed guard steps forward with an air of rehearsed politeness. He lifted a hand, signalling for me to halt. The window glided down, letting in the faint scent of roses and freshly trimmed hedges.

"Good evening," the guard says, not quite smiling. "May I have your name, sir?"

Before I could respond, someone appeared behind him—a butler in crisp black attire, perhaps in his late fifties, hair silvered at the temples. He whispered something into the guard's ear. I caught snippets—my name, the phrase "guest of honor" gliding through the hush.

The guard's spine went rigid as though someone slid a steel rod down it. He stepped back, suddenly deference personified. "Please go right ahead, Mr. Alexander," he says, half-bowing.

A faint smirk touches my lips as I look at Beryl. "Feels a bit dramatic," I whisper. She offers me a half-shrug, half-smile. That smelled like Charlotte's doing.

The butler approached. His voice was smooth, carefully modulated. "Sir, Miss, I'm instructed to guide you, handle any of your concerns during the evening, and ensure your experience is as pleasant as possible. May I park the car for you?"

I nodded, stepping out. Beryl followed, exiting the passenger side. She tried to hide the slight quiver in her stance by adopting a stoic expression, but I caught the flicker of tension in her eyes. If I didn't know her as my sister, I might miss it entirely. "You good?" I whisper.

She gives a small laugh, more exhale than sound. "Why shouldn't I be?"

I rest a reassuring hand on her arm. Then I saw the butler watching us with mild curiosity, and I straightened. "All right, let's go." He stepped aside, beckoning us forward while some staff member slips into my car's driver seat to whisk it away.

The butler led us along a paved walk, past curated flowerbeds: roses, lavender, perfectly trimmed topiaries. We passed beneath a small arch of climbing vines, and I inhale ad gentle swirl of sweet floral perfume. The hush of the gardens carriesd a sense of orchestrated discipline as if on purpose, nothing was out of place, everything shaped by the same old money sensibility.

At length, we approached the main entrance. The facade loomed, proud and tall. I recalled the inside from glimpses: marble floors, a crystal chandelier in the foyer, plush carpets muffling footsteps. But we don't pause outside long. The butler gestures politely. We move inside. The air smells of polished wood and candlelit dinners, with faint echoes of conversation drifting through corridors.

We pass a large window that frames a view of the estate's gardens: an orchard, a petite greenhouse, meandering pathways leading to various "rooms" of greenery. Everything is bathed in soft, discreet lighting.

"All this for a single dinner. I don't know whether to be impressed or outraged by it all," Beryl mutters under her breath, her lips twisting in a half-smile, half-sneer. Her dress rustled faintly as she shifted her weight, glancing around.

We continued along a corridor, footsteps muffled by carpets. The butler stopped at an ornate door carved with swirling patterns. On the other side, I could hear laughter, the murmur of voices, the clink of glasses. It was nostalgic in a sense. This sound, I recognized it too well: that cocktail of self-satisfaction, the hum of a crowd that's never questioned their place in the world. They talk as though with pocket change they could buy entire neighborhoods, it hundred of thousands if not millions because, they actually probably could.

Beryl tilts her head at me. "Ready for the dance?" Her voice brims with forced levity, like a wisecrack to hide her nerves.

I scoffed, letting a small smile appear. "Hurting me, sister. As if I've ever been unprepared in my entire life."

For a moment, our gazes locked, identical blue eyes reading each other's resolve. We both know we were here on a mission, for Thalia's sake, for the future of our family. There was no sense in hesitation anymore . Beryl looped her arm through mine.

The butler opens the door, revealing a bright, high-ceilinged space. Immediately, conversation hushed. It was like a wave receding, every face turning our way.

There was firstly that brief pause where everyone processes the newcomers. I kept my head high, feeling the gentle weight of the Cuff on my wrist and the sleek jacket hugging my frame. On the corner of the eye, I could see my sister Beryl standing tall as well almost as if she hadn't displayed any doubt before midnight gown accentuating her figure, platinum threads glinting softly under the chandeliers.

Eyes travelled over us. I could see some be enthralled by the craftsmanship of our attire or the subdued sparkle of diamonds. Others were evaluating our posture, our expressions, trying to measure us.

I also realized that a big portion of their stares revolved around our faces too hat. There was the fact that for all the wrongs of my parents in this second life like not hesitating about making their daughter homeless because she didn't follow the path they wanted her to, one thing the both of them could not deny was the fact that their genes made children that were both very attractive.

 It was almost insulting in a way and it was purely genetic because I had never put more than minimum attention on my appearance yet I looked like what models in magazines probably wished to look like.

The same thing could be said with my sister Beryl, that after all, even though it had been more a curse than a benediction, she did attract Zeus' attention a lot of times unfortunately and it would not have been the case if she looked as if she snuck on Earth, well probably, you never knew with Zeus.

Then Huntington Sr., I always forgot his first name—billionaire host, father to Charlotte, the man who orchestrated this gathering—cuts across the room with outspread arms. "Alex, my boy, you finally came!" He exclaims, voice booming with an almost paternal warmth.

Before I could fully brace, he grabs me in a hearty, half-embrace. I managed not to recoil, forcing a cordial grin. Did I forget to say that for whichever reason, he likes me a lot? He then turned to Beryl and greeted by her by lifting her hand to his lips, pressing a feathery kiss on her knuckles.

"And who might this beautiful woman be?" he inquires, a slight spark in his eye.

Beryl inclines her head slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

I step in, offering a concise answer: "She's my sister."

Huntington's gaze flicks between us, a flicker of recognition at the identical eye color and a certain shared angularity in our features. A wide grin breaks. "I see the resemblance. You both look really good you know my boy? If I'd looked half as good as you two at your age, I wouldn't have known how to act."

A woman's voice interjected, one sounding amused: "As if it would have changed anything back then. You were a sore to look at and you still didn't know how to act when we were younger Husband."

If I was not wrong, that was pro lay be Mrs. Huntington, the matriarch, Charlotte's mother. She was slipping in from behind him with a wry grin.

From the corner, Charlotte appears—her mother at her side. She brightens upon spotting me, and her expression glides through a range of emotions: excitement, something like longing, and a guarded sense of triumph. Immediately, she links arms with her mother, and together I watched them gravitate toward Beryl.

"I was listening. Never thought that the great Beryl Grace could be Alex's sister. Come with us," Charlotte murmurs, voice sweet as honey. "I am a big fan. More than that, I'm sure that there is a lot of things about your brother and you that would more than interesting to know."

Her mother nodded, and Beryl glanced at me, a silver or fleeting worry in her eyes. I raised my brow in silent question: will you be all right?

Beryl offered a faint nod that screamed *I'll manage even if it is the last thing I want to do then she let them whisk her away into a small cluster of well-dressed women.

Huntington Sr. rested a hand on my shoulder. "Allow me to introduce you to some of our esteemed guests." There's no missing the glint in his eye, a paternal desire to guide me around. Perhaps he's already decided my path is to align with his interests. "They've been quite eager to meet the man who singlehandedly overcame the real estate odds and purchased a home in this venerable neighborhood. Not to mention a certain rumor about your flair for investing."

I didn't even try to ask him how he knew even though I had not told him. He probably had used his wealth and his connections to discover how I made my money.

He gently steers me through a swirl of suits and gowns. "You see over there," he whispered while pointing at a man standing by a statue near the fireplace, sipping an amber drink, eyes assessing me with a politician's trained interest. "This is Roman Riordan. He built a fortune in private ventures, then pivoted to local politics. There is a lot of chances that he's going to be the next mayor."

"Roman! Old friend! Allow me to present to you Alexander."

Our gazes locked and it's as if he was trying to dissect me, to see what made me tick. We exchange pleasantries, a firm handshake. He inquires about how I found Hancock Park, if I have any plans or thought about making ones that might impact the city like maybe buying large real estate. I of course didn't give him more than the least. I offered him with a smile that could not be more fake vague niceties: like "The neighborhood is beautiful, the community supportive."

After him, Henry presented me to an Elias Bord, a guy that was apparently a philanthropic real estate titan. Honestly, philanthropic didn't go at all with real estate. It was kinda like saying that I was a hunter who on the side built with woods little houses for the animals I had turned into Bambis.

Guy was all smiles and boring as fuck praising at what seem to be each breath what he called the old L.A. architecture. I had to remind myself that I was there because I needed their money, because their support would allow me to advance my plans more quickly, for Thalia to be back quickly.

He mentioned how he had turned entire blocks into philanthropic projects—some row of houses for low-income families, presumably. I was sure that those low income families would mostly if given the chance to be honest say things not that grateful. "So you're Alex, the young man I've heard so much about from Henry" he said, eyes gleaming with interest and something else I could not place. "I must say, buying a home in such a neighbourhood, having so much wealth is an accomplishment, a remarkable one, especially for someone your age. You must share your secrets."

I gave him a rehearsed smile "Just a lot of work and some good fortune Mister Elias."

The next person Huntington's senior presented to me was a guy called Simeon Redbrook. According to Charlotte's father, he was a media mogul who basically owned a major chunk of Hollywood so in other words could bury Beryl career even deeper or make it way much easier to make her soar like she never did before.. He extended a hand. "Heard you're a self-made success, almost just like Beryl Grace, the woman you came with."

I didn't need him to spell me why he said almost. "She's my sister," I told him and I saw something like intrigue and calculations in his eyes. He was now looking at me as if I had potentially giving him a golden goose. "It's in our blood to reach greater heights again and again no matter what."

"Of course, of course. You plan to dabble in media yourself, to be like your sister?" His voice was smooth, but there's a predatory undercurrent.

"Beryl was always the one supposed to be shining before all but who knows, things can change if enough of a push is given." He narrowed his eyes, as if sizing me up. "You're interesting and I love interesting. Something tells me that we will become great friends."

The next guy I talked with was one nearby named Darin Gefford, somewhat more flamboyant in manner. He gave me an energetic handshake the moment we stepped closer to him, almost a pat on the back. "Dude, I love your jacket," he exclaims, eyeing the faint metallic shimmer. "Is that custom?" I nod, and he presses, "You do fashion design too?" I just laughed lightly, explaining my sister sketched it, and we just gave the money to an artisan to bring this to life. There was no way in hell I would reveal adaptive material synthesis because of clothes. More than that, the fact that they were custom-made meant that their value was superior to what he could have originally thought and he and the others thought such was nothing but beneficial.

His reaction was a wide grin: "Your sister must be something special. Maybe she should have been a fashion designer instead."

"It's never too late," I replied to him "And nothing says that my sister can't do both. I know she's talented enough to do so. Maybe we could schedule something in the near future."

"I would adore it, Alexander. I know that with your sister's designs and my connections and my stores, we could make more than a lot of money."

The only thing I gave at his words was a smile. So far, things have been good. Even if something happened to me, I knew that the conversation I just had ensured that Beryl would have another way to thrive financially, to give a boost to her image and in consequence her career.

My attention switched from Darin to the woman stepping toward us. I just with a glance, I knew who she was. Diana Fenston, the California Senator. I honestly was not surprised at all to see her this. It was after all a gathering organized by members of the Huntington family and the Huntington's name was one with power, power that could easily make or break her political career.

She was poised, an expression that could be called friendly if not for how cold her eyes were. Each word was measured. She inquired about whether I have a mind to partner, to invest with environmental agencies or legislative bodies, one that of course had links to her from close or afar. She was trying to use me shamelessly and she knew I knew but I knew that by letting her, I was in a way getting the ability, given the ability by her to not use her but influence her and especially coming from the senator of California could be a seriously powerful thing. I hinted politely that I would interest myself deeply with those agencies and left crumbs that I might have big plans kinda in a way telling her I would scratch your back but you'll also have to do so in return.

She angled her brow and it may have appeared intrigued to some. For me, I could only see calculations. Next to her 2/: Grant Davison, the Lieutenant Governor. He chimes in with half-joking remarks about wooing me into state programs. I keep my answers between tentatively interested and deftly noncommittal.

The last person Henry Huntington presented to me was a man called Roy Buxton who arrived and offered a curt greeting. His questions revolve around ROI and scaling, whether I'd consider private equity expansions. The man was transparent in his hunger for a next big venture. I honestly at that moment thanked my father in my past life because I would not have been able to answer if it was not because he had liked to rant about nerd stuff like that. I answered with a measured grin that I'll keep him in mind if I need capital injections. He in returned just chuckled.

We passed by a group chatting around a grand piano. Some older matrons give me polite smiles, remarking how youthful and good looked, how well I carried myself. They called me "charming."

One even said the following "What an absolutely enchanting young man! Such fine features—one scarcely sees such loveliness these days."

I would not say that my ego didn't feel more than inflated. Also with the way, they were looking at me, I knew that a worst, I could count on older women investing in Arasaka. Defeating Olympus with the power of sugar mamas.

I also heard One or two whisper praises about Beryl's appearance, how the platinum and diamond pieces accentuate her outfit.

 It made remember one of the old quip of my mom in my first life: "If you want to get by with the rich, give them enough reason to believe you're unthreatening yet promising." Or in other words, be eye catching but not in way that most would feel threatened by it. I could have done so much worst, something so much more eye catching, expensive looking but it would not helped. Maybe in the future but now was not the moments.

It was at this moment that Charlotte's mother called out from across the room "It's time for dinner."

The throng reoriented, drifting through an open set of double doors into a dining hall that was decadent in every sense: a long table, gorgeously set with silver candelabras, centerpieces of immaculate flower arrangements. The chairs were plush, carved in that old aristocratic style. The plates themselves glimmered with gold edging.

It was the sort of meal that you read about in a fairy-tale story, one where the message behind was probably grim and where most of the food would be poisoned at best.

the way the seats were set up made sure that I was between Huntington Senior and Charlotte who was looking at me in a way that even a blind man could see that she was infatuated with me. She didn't look thirsty. She looked dehydrated. The way the seats were agenced, me sitting between Charlotte and her father must have been intentional. I would become a Zeus worshipper if it was not for the case.

Beryl, a couple seats away, was flanked by Mrs. Huntington and another guest. I saw her glance at me, a faint question in her eyes—"You okay?"—and I nodded softly. If anything, I should be the one asking her that but she honestly looked like a fish in the sea.

She smiled back, just a bit, and returns to conversation with the older woman next to her, who I could her pumping my for details about her design inspirations and things about her Hollywood career.

Charlotte looks at me with open admiration. Even a blind man could see she's enthralled. I suspect her father orchestrated this seat arrangement precisely to encourage that spark between us. I can't blame them for trying; big families with old money love securing alliances. If I were in their shoes, I might do the same. I channel a fraction of my charm, not wanting to sour any relationships tonight. Her perfume is sweet, the kind that suggests quiet but persistent longing. Her posture leans subtly my direction.

When all of us were settled, Huntington Sr. Stood to deliver a short speech. He thanked everyone for attending, spoke of how family was paramount, how times changed yet certain values remain. He talked about the significance of bridging present and future. His words, layered in multiple meanings, drifted through my mind—like he was subtly urging me to consider "joining" the family. Seriously, could he be more obvious? Also, sure, it benefited me that he liked me but he should not have liked me that much.

There was something I was not getting at all. He ended with a flourish: "To new prospects, to forging a better tomorrow, and to the bright souls who might guide us there." Applause followed politely and measured then the staff began serving dinner.

The dishes were a decadent parade: fillets, succulent fish, rare vegetables arranged in mesmerizing patterns, sauces gliding across plates in decorative swirls. The air thickened with rich aromas. I grasped my fork, noticing how the overhead light glints on the polished silver. With careful precision, I stabbed a tender piece of braised meat. It yielded easily, juices seeping onto the plate. The color was a deep red, kinda reminiscent of blood. I sliced into it with my knife, threads of flesh parting to reveal the pink center. Specks of its marinade fleckd the blade, shining briefly before I brought it to my mouth.

The taste was simultaneously indulgent and slightly unsettling—there's was primal note in that metallic tang of blood and it seemed that no matter how fancy the dish was, it was not something it escaped from.

I saw the reflection of candlelight on the fork's edge, a small rivulet of sauce dripping from the tines, painting the plate in lines reminiscent of some dark calligraphy. A half-eaten chunk rested there, looking equal parts delicious and almost grisly. This banquet felt in a way like a display of refined gluttony, a realm of extravagance that was purposefully set this way, that was intended to both dazzle and repel. There was a metaphor in this, something deeper I knew I was missing. The problem was that I knew I was missing something but I didn't know what I was missing in this Beautiful and grotesque in equal measure feast.

Charlotte dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, then leaned toward me, her voice honeyed. "I'm so glad you came tonight, Alex. Really," she says, eyes fluttering in a way that signaled too much practiced coquettishness. "I hope this is the first of many such gatherings. I've been hoping we'd spend more time together."

I responded by projecting on my face what was hopefully a mild, flirtatious smile and by letting a hint of mischief slip into my tone. "I'm honored you invited me, Charlotte. It's not every day I get to dine in such good company." I laughed gently, adding, "Though I should warn you, I might get used to this kind of spoiling if you keep inviting me." I wonder if it was possible to die from cringing internally. What I do for family.

She giggled colour rising to her cheeks, as though I've fed her exactly the line she wanted. Girl, please have some self-respect "I don't see why not. We can always find reasons for gatherings—charity events, private viewings, or just dinner." She flipped ba strand of hair behind her shoulder, revealing a small earring set with a modest diamond. It was overshadowed by the diamond and Platinum regalia Beryl and I were wearing, ironically. Truly a good thing that Charlotte seemed to be more focused on my face than that fact.

"You've made quite a splash here even if you probably didn't know it. My father's after learning how you made you money had been speaking non-stop about your success." Ok, let's ignore again the fact that her father used his contacts to invade, to peer into my personal life without my consent "Always telling my brothers they should be more like you. He's rarely this enthusiastic about anyone. He also thinks you have a brighter future, that you are meant for great things."

She touched my wrist lightly, gesture intimate. "I'd love to see what you do that from as close as possible."

I maintained my own veneer of suaveness. "I might need your help," I said. Hook. "I'm new to these circles, remember?" I glance around at the cluster of influential guests. "A friendly guide could be the difference between success and a lot of closed doors." Line.

She beams, nodding eagerly. "I'll help in any way I can." Sinker.

I accept her flirtation because the last thing I need is the scorn of the Huntingtons. Their support could expedite so many of my ambitions. If Charlotte wants to view me as a potential partner, so be it. I can continue to indulge her, balancing charm without fully promising anything. Overcommitting might be a pitfall and I know that It will give me headaches in the future but I can juggle it for now.

Across from me, a graying man I heard be called by the name of Roy Buxton lifted his wine glass. "So, Alex, can I call you Alex? I'm going to call you Alex. I hear you've done well with investing, probably chose the good stock picks. Still, I was wondering Are you exploring other avenues, or do you plan to stay into investing, into the stock market? Any new domain that piques your interest?"

The mockery, the condensation was thick in his voice. On the corner of my eyes, I could see that Charlotte and her father's behaviour had changed. Something told me that there would be if I did or said nothing consequences, to say the least for him. At least, he gave me the perfect occasion to do what was the more important task, the reason why I was here.

I tilted my head. "As a matter of fact, there is something, yes." I made sure that the words coming out were measured but with a faint edge.

Another guest, already three glasses in, chuckles dismissively. "What is it, boy wonder?" He sets down his glass, the tinted red liquid swirling ominously. There's a challenge in his eyes, the skepticism of an older generation. "I recall being twenty-one, thinking I could reinvent the wheel." Another one. At least, something was normal. People were being too nice when I knew that even if I was invited here, even if I had a net worth superior to a lot of those people, I was still in some of their eyes an upstart.

I let a small, roguish smile slip across my lips. "I guess you could phrase it that way. Let's just say I have my sights on something that might lead us to a realm of power we haven't touched yet. You see—" I spear a piece of burgundy-hued beef, chewing briefly, then swallowing, "I'm interested in… unlimited energy."

He snorts a short laugh. "Unlimited energy?" He taps the table with a finger. "You kids these days and your grand ideas. Dreaming is admirable, but we must be realistic, no?" A few around him nod in mild agreement, as though he's voiced a universal truth.

I wait for a silent beat, letting the tension coil. I locked my gaze with him then I spoke softly, "What if I told you that I already cracked it? That in my pocket, at this moment, I carry a device that can generate stable, inexhaustible power?"

In an instant, the conversation halted. The entire table quiets, forks freezing mid-bite. Charlotte's father, next to me, shifted his sharp gaze away from Buxton and the other who had spoken. His eyes had narrowed in keen interest. I would even say that I could see excitement in his gaze as if he was a kid and Christmas had come earlier. He looked as if he already believed me. Even Charlotte stopped leaning toward me, her posture going rigid with what seemed to be a mix of anticipation and caution. Beryl, a few seats away, stares at me. Our gazes met and I watched her lips morph to hint at a smile, one that seemed to say you got it.

I continued letting each word land deliberately. "I made it this morning."

Silence reigned The hush was so complete I can almost hear the flicker of a candle then I eased my hand into my jacket pocket, carefully withdrawing the arc like reactor device. It fitted in my palm. I held it up between my fingers, the overhead chandelier casting glints along its surface.

"It would be more truthful to say I was interested in unlimited energy," I remarked turning my gaze to the guest who dared to laugh. "But that was before I succeeded. I became a millionaire with my investments before I was ten years old. The only reason I'm not a billionaire yet is that I simply haven't chosen to be. Dreams, you see, might be impossible for most but the thing is that my sister and I—" I flick a sidelong glance at Beryl, who wears a slight grin "—we're the exception."

I let my voice linger on that final statement, letting the weight of it settle. Across from me, I see jaws slacken, eyes bright with shock, curiosity, maybe greed. Wine glasses remain suspended mid-air, the entire table enthralled.

Now was the time for the real dance to begin.