Obviously, that evening, the air in the private dining room of the Hôtel de Crillon was filled with the smell of truffle oil, expensive perfume and quiet power. And this wasn’t a networking event, this was a private dinner prepared by the very investors who had just been as impressed with Max as I had. The guest list was carefully thought out, a cabal of European finance, tech and art.Gina and Ethan, having gotten invitations through Ethan’s father’s now waning networks of connections, were momentarily out of place. Ethan in the stiff-fitting tuxedo squished together in his hand after a few nervous glances, held out the arms of Gina who was sitting in a shimmering silver dress which suddenly seemed rather loud with her smile crackling; they were led to a less visible table which was located just near the entrance of the kitchen, the sound of dishes constantly reminding them that they were “outside” of it.“This is... this is stupid, ” Ethan muttered, his voice tight and almost exhali

Days turned to weeks. And the rumors about Ethan’s family kept coming out louder like a fever that spread indefinitely through the elite circles of Paris. It started sneaky; a raised eyebrow here, a cold nod there — fed by the reporter’s article and Max’s almost non-existent influence, it seems. Then the rumors turned into facts. News came in: first it came as rumors in obscure financial blogs, then as stories of great suspicion in trusted publications, details of misdeeds within Baron Industries, Ethan’s father’s sprawling organization of holdings – embezzlement of labor from overseas factories, violation of the environment in their manufacturing plants, various kinds of egregious financial maneuvers to boost profits over their limits and avoid paying taxes. The once almost impenetrable facade of the Baron family began to crumble, brick by brick.“Did you see the headlines today?” a student muttered in the school cafeteria, holding up a tablet displaying a damning exposé. “Baron Indu

The muffled screams were the first thing. A child’s, thin and sharp, piercing through the fog, then the fiery smell of gunpowder, metallic and sickening. Max seemed to lose his ability to see, blurred vision, a rainbow of shadows and flashes of light, and the loud murmur of bodies collapsing to the ground. He was small, so small, hiding behind something cold and hard, peeking through a crack. Two figures that didn’t appear to be distinct, falling. A woman’s hand, reaching, then still. A man’s arm outstretched. Then there was a voice, not a scream, but an unbelievably awful shout, echoing in the void: “FERNANDO! ”Max got up in the bed and a gasp lashed out of his throat. “Fernando, ” the name echoed in his ears. Brutally hitting his ribs, the sweat dripping on his skin. He blinked, settling back into his bedroom feeling a fraction of the chaos from the nightmare slowly replacing the chaos. The tall windows looked into his bedroom and were already bright. He wriggled his legs over the

The opulent suite, usually a sanctuary of quiet luxury, hummed with a low, predatory energy. Vincenzo, Max’s uncle, leaned back in a plush armchair, swirling amber liquid in a snifter. Across from him, Magnus paced, a restless tiger in a gilded cage.“Everything’s in place,” Magnus declared, stopping by the window, gazing out at the manicured gardens below. “Max won’t know what hit him. He’s too busy playing the benevolent lord, charming the staff, making nice with the old money.”Vincenzo took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Magnus. “Patience, Magnus. The key is precision. A grand performance requires careful orchestration, not just brute force.”Magnus scoffed, turning from the window. “Precision? I’ve already started the overture. Sent a little ‘welcome home’ gift to his little girlfriend. Lena, right? Thought she could use a dose of reality about what this family truly is. A few choice photographs should ‘open her eyes,’ as they say.” A smug smile played on his lips.Vincenzo’s

The clinking of silverware against porcelain was the only sound in the grand dining room, a stark contrast to the usual lively morning chatter. Lena sat stiffly, picking at a piece of toast, the horrifying images from yesterday still vivid behind her eyes. Every glance from Max felt like a judgment, every hushed word from Elena, Max’s grandmother, a condemnation. Max himself sat opposite her, his jaw tight, his gaze distant. Bucky, usually boisterous, was unusually quiet, his eyes narrowed, fixed on the empty chair at the head of the table. Vincenzo, Max’s uncle, merely observed, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.Elena finally broke the silence. “Lena, darling, are you alright? You barely touched your breakfast.” Her voice was gentle, but Lena could feel the unspoken question in it. *Did you open the box? Did you see?*Lena managed a weak smile. “Just not very hungry, Grandma Elena. Too much excitement, I suppose.” She avoided Max’s eyes.Max cleared his throat. “Lena, about