The Goldmaster

014: Arrival

As the murmurs over the Yanhuang Wine gradually faded, Mr Alberto leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, but his gaze locked with the unassuming man across the room. A hundred glittering guests watched in silence, waiting.

The old man finally spoke, voice carrying effortlessly across the hall.

“Young man,” he said, tapping a finger against his wine cup, “a wine like this isn’t something just anyone could obtain.” He paused, eyes narrowing with interest.

“What do you do?”

The man didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. But for the briefest instant, his expression wavered—something behind the eyes—before he replied with calm simplicity.

“I was a medical professor,” he said. “Recently laid off.”

A ripple of surprise rolled through the room like a shift in air pressure. A professor? And yet he dressed like… that? The stark black shirt.No timepiece, no visible brand. He didn’t even have a family name anyone could recall.

One of the younger heirs muttered, “Why would a professor be carrying something like that wine?”

A diamond-studded socialite in pearls whispered back, “What kind of professor gets laid off and then hands out million-dollar gifts?”

But Mr alberto was watching more closely than most. He saw the way the man’s hand tightened around his glass—barely—but just enough.

“And your family?” the old man asked, voice still casual, but with a sharper edge.

The response came clipped, without embellishment.

“No family to speak of. My fiancée left me a year ago.”

A murmur swept across the tables.

From her seat near the dais, Pamela stilled. Her fingers curled beneath the tablecloth, palm pressing tight into her gown’s silk.

Mr Alberto exhaled through his nose and set his wine down with a thoughtful clink.

“A man of knowledge, down on his luck, yet still capable of producing something priceless.” He leaned slightly forward, studying him like a rare artifact.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low but clear,

“have you ever considered running a pharmaceutical company?”

The silence that followed was so sudden it felt physical, even the string quartet faltered.

The professor blinked. “I—what?”

Mr Alberto waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing aside the absurdity of such surprise.

“I own a few. One of them could use a man with your expertise. Consider it yours, if you’re interested.”

The magnitude of the offer hung in the air like a suspended chandelier. No boardroom meetings, no interviews, no negotiations. A multimillion-dollar company—offered on the floor of a banquet hall, in front of half the city’s elite.

Gasps and whispers broke out around the tables. A young CEO muttered something to his father. The heir to a tech conglomerate leaned to his date and hissed, “What the hell is going on?”

Lucas, who was the man at the center of it all, remained still. Not out of arrogance—but control. He hadn’t expected this, that much was obvious..

Then Mr Alberto, with a tone so offhanded it chilled the room, added,

“And since my granddaughter is still unmarried…”

Across the table, Pamela’s spine went rigid.

“Grandfather!”

Her voice rang out, sharp as shattering porcelain.

All heads turned. The room shifted again, like gravity had realigned. Standing now, she faced the crowd—not meekly, not demure—but poised and visibly furious.

The light from the chandeliers caught on her emerald gown, rippling in green light as she stepped forward.

“I already have someone I like,” she said, voice like ice. “You don’t need to arrange anything.”

It hit the room like a thunderclap.

Mr Alberto’s face tensed—not in anger, but quiet surprise. Across the table, her mother’s expression was already shifting—smile faltering, hands frozen mid-clap. The gentry whispered among themselves like a sudden flock of birds.

“HAH!” Almonde stepped forward, all bravado and blinding teeth.

He practically leapt to the front, arms outstretched like a man expecting applause.

“Pamela, don’t be shy! Of course, it’s me you like, right?” He turned dramatically toward SM2, clasping his hands.

“Sir, please don’t separate us! We’ve been close for years!”

The lie landed with a thud.

Pamela stared at him as if he’d just confessed to murder.

“You—!” she began.

But Almonde wasn’t done.

“I know you’re just embarrassed to say it in front of everyone, but—”

“You’re mistaken.”

Her voice was lethal now.

The temperature dropped. Even Mr Alberto's eyes narrowed. Almonde faltered, shrugging more than usual. He looked toward the crowd, suddenly unsure, but too arrogant to backtrack.

Then her mother jumped in—voice brittle, tight with desperation.

“Well, if it’s not Almonde…” She hesitated.

“Then who?” Her gaze shifted—sharp, hawk-like—toward the man in black. “…Him?”

Pamela didn’t answer, but she didn’t deny it.

The silence roared louder than any shout. Her cheeks colored—not from shame, but sheer fury—and yet she held her ground.

Her mother’s eyes widened.

“Wait—wait, this can’t—” She turned quickly to Almonde’s parents, fumbling for grace.

“Oh, but our families have always been so close! Surely we can discuss this—just a misunderstanding—young people—”

The two old socialites forced polite smiles, but their son was still staring at Pamela like she’d stabbed him.

And Mr Alberto—he raised a hand but before a word could leave his mouth—

The banquet doors thundered open.

The butler appeared in the entry, chest visibly rising and falling. His voice trembled as he announced,

“General Ace has arrived.”

The ballroom dropped into total silence.