CHAPTER 26: CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: BENEATH THE GLITTER AND GLITZ

The ballroom shimmered beneath chandeliers that spilled light like

liquid gold—luxury made visible, the kind that existed only in places where money no longer needed to speak.

Music floated through the air—live classical music performed by a small orchestra tucked discreetly beneath the grand staircase. The violins rose and fell with practiced grace, their notes threading through laughter and conversation until even the silence seemed expensive.

Waiters moved with the precision of choreography, silver trays glinting as champagne caught the light. After all, unlike the novels people liked to read, spilling a drink on a guest here didn’t lead to romance—it warranted an expensive apology and possibly unemployment.

The crowd glittered with familiar faces, executives, socialites, investors—all smiling just a little widely, each performing the same quiet competition disguised as civility.

This kind of party wasn’t just a simple celebration. It was a marketplace dressed in velvet—where smiles were currency, and every toast was a transaction. People came not to enjoy, but to be seen; not to dance, but to negotiate.

Contracts began over cocktails. Alliances were hinted at between waltzes. By the end of the night, fortunes could quietly shift hands—all sealed and started with nothing more than a polite nod and a glass raised in passing.

And yet, beneath the charm and conversation, everyone knew what tonight was really about.

It wasn’t simply another gala. It was a revelation.

For the first time, the An family would publicly acknowledge their long-lost daughter—the same An Ning who’d been lighting up trending searches for weeks.

The invitation had called it a "private family celebration," but no one here was naive. This was a statement, a carefully staged announcement meant to rewrite public perception.

By the end of the night, An Ning wouldn’t just be another celebrity—she’d be the A family’s princess.

*****

Across the ballroom, Song Qiaolian stood near the edge of the crowd, her flute of champagne held delicately between two fingers, posture impeccable, smile practiced.

From a distance, she looked no different from the rest—elegant dress, perfect hair, an expression poised somewhere between polite interest and boredom. But beneath the shimmer of sequins, her pulse thudded sharp.

She didn’t belong here.

Not really.

Her family’s business sat comfortably in the middle tier of the city’s ladder—stable enough to mingle, never powerful enough to lead. Usually, her family wouldn’t even be given an invitation to this kind of event, much less her.

Tonight, she was here at the invitation of An Ya.

An Ya, who had insisted she come, who had smiled too sweetly and said, "You’ll make the right impression, Qiaolian-jie."

She’d hesitated at first, knowing her surname didn’t carry enough weight to open these doors—but curiosity and ambition had a way of sounding like courage.

And so here she was—standing in a ballroom where chandeliers cost more than her apartment, surrounded by people who appeared in business magazines instead of social ones—the kind who could decide the fate of entire companies over dinner.

She took a sip of champagne to hide the tightness in her throat. The bubbles fizzed lightly on her tongue, bright and meaningless.

Around her, laughter swelled. Polished conversation drifted like perfume—money, mergers, market shares. Words that never quite belonged to her world.

For a moment, she wondered if anyone could see it—the faint crack beneath her poise, the quiet ache of wanting more.

Wanting in.

Because if there was one thing she’d learned from watching the powerful, it was that access was everything. One step closer meant a few thousand fewer ceilings.

And tonight, as she looked around the glittering hall, she promised herself—she won’t always be standing at the edge of the crowd.

Someday, she’d be the one people looked up to.

*****

Across the room, attention had already begun to orbit someone else.

It wasn’t An Ning, it was Shen Bojun.

His arrival rippled through the crowd like a whisper turned wave—soft at first, then unmistakable. No one had expected him to attend; there hadn’t been a single whisper of confirmation. And yet here he was, cutting through the glittering sea of guests with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need an announcement.

Conversations faltered, laughter softened. In the next breath, people began to drift closer—casually, politely, pretending it wasn’t intentional.

Everyone wanted to greet him, to exchange a word, a smile, to leave behind a trace of their name in his memory.

After all, it wasn’t every day that Shen Bojun appeared in public. He was known for disliking crowds and declining invitations with impunity—the kind of man powerful enough to refuse without consequence.

And that only made his presence tonight all the more magnetic.

The arrival of Shen Bojun came as a pleasant surprise because no one had heard news of his attendance. Everyone clamoured to get his attention, to introduce themselves, hoping to make a little impression on Shen Bojun.

After all, it wasn’t every day that they see Shen Bojun since everyone knew that he disliked social gatherings and he was already at the point that he could refuse to attend such gatherings.

Standing not far away, Shen Xiyu lifted his glass with practiced ease, the motion smooth enough to mask the tension in his fingers.

He didn’t need to turn to know who had entered—the shift in the room was enough. The low hum of conversation had changed pitch, drawn gravity that only one person could command.

His uncle.

Shen Bojun.

The man didn’t have to say a word. A quiet greeting, a nod, and somehow the crowd rearranged itself around him. CEOs who’d been featured on the covers of business magazines leaned forward, smiles sharpening with interest.

Within moments, every conversation in the ballroom seemed to tilt toward where he stood.

It was always like this.

The spotlight never sought Shen Bojun—people offered it to him.

Shen Xiyu’s jaw flexed as he swirled the champagne in his glass, watching the golden surface ripple under the chandelier light. The laughter and praise surrounding his uncle pressed faintly against his chest.

One day, he told himself, things would be different.

It won’t always be like this.

He would made sure of it.

*****

In one of the quieter corners of the ballroom, An Yanming’s phone buzzed. He lowered his glass, the faint hum of strings and chatter fading as he glanced at the screen.

The message was short. Precise.

Phoenix Project — Bid Unsuccessful.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then his fingers tightened around the phone; he clenched his jaw.

If anyone were to see him now, they would see a very different An Yanming. His usual civil mask was torn down and in its place was something more feral.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the crowd—to where Song Qingwan stood, laughing lightly at something An Ya said.

"Trustworthy," he murmured under his breath, the word tasting faintly of irony.

And for the first time that evening, the chandelier light felt colder.