My Second Life as a High-Society Disaster

Chapter 6: Gala of Disasters

The elevator lights didn’t return with a flicker; they slammed back to life with a blinding, clinical arrogance that made Raka squint. The sudden hum of the motor signaled their return to the world of the living, and more importantly, the world of the judgmental.

Suthida didn’t scream, but she retracted her hand as if Raka’s palm had suddenly turned into a hot stove. She stood up, smoothing her skirt with shaking fingers, her face transitioning from "vulnerable human" back to "corporate executioner" in approximately 2.4 seconds.

"That never happened," she said, her voice still a little breathless from the cracker-induced fire.

"The holding hands part, or the part where you almost died because of a snack?" Raka asked, pushing himself up and dusting off his trousers.

"Both. All of it. The darkness, the truce, the... the Fingerprint," she replied, staring at the elevator doors as they slid open to reveal a frantic Leo and a small army of security guards. "From this moment on, we are back to the audit. Do not mistake a moment of shared trauma for a change in my professional opinion of you."

"Got it," Raka whispered as Leo lunged into the elevator to check Julian’s pulse. "Back to the ice queen. But for the record? You’re a lot more fun when you’re coughing your lungs out."

*

Two hours later, Raka was back in the penthouse, facing a new kind of torture.

"Surya, I’m telling you, I can’t breathe. If I sneeze, this jacket is going to fly off me like shrapnel and kill someone," Raka wheezed, standing stiffly as the butler adjusted a tie that felt like a silk noose.

"That is the intention of a bespoke Italian cut, Master Julian," Surya replied calmly, tugging at the waist. "It is designed to hold you in a state of perpetual elegance. If you can inhale fully, the tailor has failed his mission."

"I’m going to a charity gala, not a Victorian corset convention! Why is it so tight?"

"Because the public needs to see a man who is disciplined," Surya said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "After the fountain incident, the narrative is that you are 'unraveling.' This suit says you are 'contained.' Tightness is merely the price of looking like you haven't lost your mind."

"I’d rather look like I’ve lost my mind and be able to eat a shrimp cocktail," Raka muttered, checking his reflection. He looked terrifyingly handsome—the kind of handsome that made him want to apologize to his old mirror. "What’s the vibe tonight anyway? Do I just stand there and look rich?"

"Precisely. It is the Bright Future Foundation Gala. You are the lead donor. You will walk in, look bored but philanthropic, and try not to mention delivery apps or spicy snacks."

"And Suthida?"

"Miss Anong will be there, of course. To the public, you are the power couple of the decade. To the board, she is the woman currently deciding whether to pull the plug on your career. It is a delicate dance, sir."

"Great. I love dancing. Especially in shoes that were clearly designed by the Inquisition."

*

The gala was held in a ballroom that looked like it had been carved out of a single, massive diamond. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and perfume that cost more than Raka’s old apartment building. As Raka stepped out of the Rolls-Royce, the flashes of the paparazzi were so intense he thought he was having another cracker-induced stroke.

"Just keep walking," Leo hissed in his ear, smiling for the cameras while barely moving his lips. "Don't trip. Don't wave. Just look like you’re thinking about interest rates."

"I’m thinking about how much I hate these socks, Leo. Is that close enough?"

Inside, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Whispers followed them like a trail of smoke.

"Is that him? He looks... different."

"He looks sober. It won't last."

"Did you hear? He crashed a Ferrari into a fountain. My husband says he’s gone completely mad."

Raka ignored them, his eyes searching the room until they landed on a familiar figure in a floor-length, emerald-green gown. Suthida was standing near the champagne fountain, looking like a literal queen. She caught his eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Okay, I’m going in," Raka said.

"Don't do anything 'disruptive'!" Leo pleaded.

Raka began to navigate the crowd, nodding at people whose names he didn't know. He was doing well. He was being Julian. He was—

"Whoa!"

A young waiter, looking no older than nineteen and clearly overwhelmed, hit a patch of spilled champagne. His legs went out from under him, and a tray filled with "Miniature Lobster Tostadas" began to tilt toward a group of socialites who looked like they would sue a cloud for raining on them.

Raka didn't think. He didn't have time to be a billionaire. His "Go-Go-Grab" reflexes—honed by three years of dodging Jakarta traffic while balancing three boxes of pizza—took over.

He lunged.

With a grace that the suit almost prevented, he caught the waiter’s elbow with one hand and stabilized the falling tray with the other. He hauled the kid back to his feet in one smooth motion.

"I got you, buddy. Easy does it," Raka said, giving the kid a reassuring grin.

The waiter stared at him, trembling. "Thank... thank you, Mr. Thorne. I’m so sorry, I—"

"Don't sweat it. These floors are like an ice rink. Just keep your weight on your heels next time, yeah?"

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a tank. The socialites were staring. The board members were staring. Even the band seemed to have missed a beat.

Raka looked down.

While he had saved the waiter and the tray, he hadn't saved himself. During the lunging save, four of the lobster tostadas had slid off the tray and landed squarely on his "Midnight Sapphire" blazer. A dollop of lime-infused crema was currently sliding down his lapel like a slow-moving glacier.

"Oh," Raka said, looking at the mess. "Well. That’s a shame. This was a really nice jacket."

A high-pitched tittering broke out among the crowd.

"Typical Julian," a man in a tuxedo whispered loudly. "Can't even walk across a room without making a scene."

"He’s covered in seafood," another woman giggled. "How... rustic."

Raka felt the familiar heat of embarrassment rising in his neck. He looked around for Leo, but his assistant was currently burying his face in his hands near the buffet. Raka was about to beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom when a shadow fell over him.

Suthida stepped into the circle.

She didn't look disgusted. She looked... focused. She reached out, took a silk napkin from a passing server, and stepped directly into Raka’s personal space.

"Hold still," she said. Her voice wasn't a whisper, but it had a command that silenced the room.

"Suthida, it’s fine. I’ll just... I’ll go find a hose," Raka muttered.

"I said hold still, Julian." She began to expertly dab at the crema on his chest. She was so close he could smell the jasmine on her skin. Her eyes were fixed on the stain, her expression one of quiet, protective intensity.

The room erupted into a different kind of whisper.

"Is she... helping him?"

"Look at them. They look so intimate."

"I thought the engagement was off? She looks like she’s guarding him."

Suthida leaned in, her lips inches from his ear as she scrubbed a particularly stubborn bit of lobster. "You’re an idiot," she whispered, so low only he could hear. "You just ruined a twenty-thousand-dollar suit for a tray of snacks."

"I saved the kid, didn't I?" Raka whispered back, looking down at her. "He would have been fired. Or sued. People here look like they bite."

Suthida paused, her hand resting on his chest for a second too long. She looked up, her gaze meeting his. The ice was gone again, replaced by that strange, bewildered warmth he’d seen in the elevator.

"You did," she admitted softly. "It was... remarkably decent of you."

"Does that mean the audit is going well?"

Suthida actually smiled—a small, real one. "Don't push your luck, delivery boy."

She finished cleaning him up, smoothing the lapel of his jacket. She turned to the crowd, her hand still resting lightly on Raka’s arm. "It seems my fiancé has a talent for heroics tonight. Perhaps we should all follow his lead and focus more on supporting the staff than criticizing the wardrobe."

The snickering stopped instantly. If Suthida Anong said it was "heroics," then by god, it was heroics.

Raka felt a surge of genuine gratitude. "Thanks, Suthida. Really."

"Don't mention it. Literally. If this gets out, my reputation as a cold-hearted strategist is ruined."

They stood there for a moment, the tension between them humming like a live wire. Raka was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this billionaire life wouldn't be so bad if she was in it.

But the universe, as Raka had already learned, was a jerk.

"Julian? Is that really you?"

The voice was like honey poured over broken glass. It was high, melodic, and carried a tone of ownership that made the hair on Raka’s neck stand up.

Raka turned.

Standing there was a woman in a dress that was essentially a collection of gold sequins held together by a prayer. She had blonde hair that reached her waist and a pout that looked like it had been surgically perfected to demand things.

She walked straight up to Raka, ignoring Suthida entirely, and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Julian, honey! I saw the news about the fountain! I knew you were bored, but crashing a car just to get my attention? That is so you."

Raka froze, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. "Uh... hi. Hello. You are... a person. With gold sequins."

The woman pulled back, her eyes narrowing as she flicked a glance at Suthida’s hand on Raka’s arm. "A person? Julian, don't be silly. It’s Bella. Your 'favorite mistake,' remember?"

She leaned in, whispering loud enough for the entire front row of the gala to hear.

"Are we still on for tonight? I kept the key to the penthouse. I thought we could celebrate your 'recovery' the way we used to. Without the... chaperones."

Raka looked at Suthida.

The warmth in Suthida’s eyes didn't just fade; it flash-froze. She retracted her hand from Raka’s arm as if he’d suddenly turned back into a "Satan’s Fingerprint" cracker.

"Bella," Suthida said, her voice like a guillotine blade. "I see you’ve managed to find your way back from the Maldives. Or was it the rehab center in Malibu?"

"Suthida, darling! Still wearing green? It really brings out the... envy," Bella purred, then turned her blinding smile back to Raka. "Well, Julian? Are you going to introduce me to your 'fiancée' properly, or should we just go somewhere more private and catch up on everything you’ve 'forgotten'?"

Raka looked from the gold-clad chaos of Bella to the icy, trembling fury of Suthida.

Oh no, Raka thought. I definitely preferred the cracker.