James leaned back, winded, but let her think she was right. Hannah mistook his late-night appetite for a compliment to her cooking, piling his plate high with seconds. James let her believe that, too.
For now, it was enough. Family, food, small victories in a video game. Tomorrow, the mask of civility would return with Marbury's gala. But tonight, this was all he needed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The charity reception unfolded at Gilson Marbury's seaside villa, a structure designed as much to impress as to inhabit. White stone walls stretched toward the waterline, glass balconies catching the last smear of sunset. Beyond the gates, manicured hedges lined the driveway in a show of wealth, the kind of display that screamed money first, taste second.
James pulled up in his Audi R8, the low growl of the engine drawing glances from valets in neat suits. He slipped the invitation from his jacket, passed it to the attendant at the front gate without a word, and was waved inside.
The villa's banquet hall was cavernous. A crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, its light fractured into hundreds of points across polished marble floors. Waiters in white gloves drifted among the guests, trays balanced in their hands like ballerinas. The air was thick with perfume, the scent of the sea drifting in from the terrace, and the faint sweetness of expensive champagne.
The format was buffet-style, with food stations arranged along the periphery. Most guests only toyed with the foods, too concerned with conversation and appearances to risk sauce stains or chewing at the wrong moment. James was not like the other guests.
He filled his plate and walked through the crowd like no one's business. Every dish was tasted one by one, and each bite was savoured and critiqued. He paused only long enough to rank them internally: seafood risotto, meh; lamb skewers, overrated; stuffed mushrooms, unexpectedly delicious.
He ate not just because he was hungry, but also because he'd learned to care for the food. His first formal meal with Maria Hill had shifted something in him. Back then, he'd only humored the menu. Now he understood food as part of the battlefield. A man who ignored detail at the table would miss detail elsewhere.
In the past, he'd been content with hamburgers and Coke, sustenance on the run. But those belonged to another life, one he rarely let himself remember. Tonight, the plate was classical. A glass of fruit juice balanced all the food, his hand steady as he took a seat at a corner table.
James savoured every food without a spill, not caring who watched. Fork to mouth, swallow, and repeat. He ignored the sideways glances from nearby people, the disdain curling in their lips. Their judgment was worth nothing.
[Observation: Ninety percent of guests are consuming minimal portions of food. Your rate of intake deviates significantly from the crowd's consumption. Expected social response: disapproval.]
James smirked faintly at Cortana's whisper. 'Let them stare.'
A voice cut across the table. "Why are you eating here alone?"
James looked up, mid-bite. Tony Stark stood grinning at him, a glass of scotch in hand. Beside him, arm linked loosely with someone, Natasha Romanoff. She wore a black silk dress with a neckline designed to draw attention, her gaze already locked on James, like he was unwelcome and unneeded.
"Because I'm hungry," James said, swallowing before adding, "Have you eaten yet?" Then he went right back to his plate.
Tony chuckled. "Not yet, but watching you, I suddenly feel like I am! Natasha, you want anything?"
"No thanks. I'm full just watching him." Her tone was dry, but she didn't leave. Instead, she slid into the chair across from James, her eyes never leaving him.
Her stare didn't bother him. Fork up, bite down. He barely even looked at her.
For Natasha, it was maddening. She was used to her looks as a weapon, sharper than any blade. Men faltered, stumbled over themselves, and gave her the higher ground willingly. But him? James ate with total disregard, as if her presence were a background noise.
A faint line of tension appeared at her temple. Confidence fractured. 'Does he really think I'm not beautiful?' The thought lodged itself despite her discipline.
When Tony returned with a plate piled high, he caught the tableau: Natasha staring, with James chewing ignorantly, the silence charged in a way that made him grin.
"James, why are you even here? I thought you hated cocktail parties," Tony asked as he sat down.
"A mission," James said simply. "If I didn't have one, I wouldn't bother. But the food here is also decent. Once I'm full, I'll go back to work."
"A mission? Both of you? Then why not show up together?" Tony teased.
James gave him a flat look. "Forgot what you said to yourself already?"
Recognition flickered in Tony's eyes. He remembered. 'Don't let him see it,' James had warned him once, about masks and slips. Now Tony had slipped, and James had let him hang for a second before burying it under another bite of risotto.
Tony wisely shut up and ate.
Their table drew attention. Stark was a magnet for eyes, Romanoff doubled that effect, and James's indifference made the scene even stranger.
Then came the booming voice. "Mr. Stark! It's my honor to have you here tonight!"
Gilson Marbury approached like a man who wanted the whole hall to know it. He was a rotund man, his tuxedo stretched across his belly, cheeks flushed with the effort of walking across the room. His smile was wide, but his eyes were small, nearly hidden under folds of fat.
Tony dabbed his mouth with a napkin, rose smoothly, and clasped the man's hand. "Always glad to support charity," he said with the kind of effortless charm that could sell stock futures or missile contracts.
Marbury's laughter boomed again. "Yes, yes. Passion for charity! I recall you recently donated your art collection—very generous, very generous indeed."
James looked up briefly from his plate, then went back to eating.
"And this beautiful lady…" Marbury's gaze lingered openly on Natasha. "Mr. Stark, you always bring such stunning companions. I envy you."
"Oh, you would also if you could lose weight," Tony quipped without missing a beat.
James nearly choked on his food. He swallowed quickly, refusing to let Stark see him laugh.
Marbury didn't flinch. "Why would I lose weight for a woman? When I can eat more instead? Beauty fades, but appetite endures."
Natasha seized the moment, her voice silk over steel. "Mr. Marbury, your reputation precedes you. The real estate empire, the scale of it—it's impressive."
James caught the tactic instantly. A beautiful woman showing sudden interest was never free. Natasha was probing, watching for tells, fishing for openings.
[Analysis: Probability high that Romanoff is leveraging appearance as tactical pressure. Countermeasure: minimal acknowledgment.]
James's lips quirked faintly. He knew he was handsome too—annoyingly so, if the stares in the room were any metric. The difference was that he didn't rely on it. He didn't need to.
Marbury puffed his chest proudly. "And this—this must be Mr. James Gibson! Truly, I'm honored to meet you too."
James wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood, and shook the man's hand. The grip was soft, yet clammy. "First time at an event like this. To be honest, I'm not comfortable with it. But the food's good and that's all I need."
Marbury's laugh was genuine this time. "A man like my own heart. When we have the chance, we'll exchange info. I've eaten delicacies across the globe. We can enrich each other's appetite with all the food we have eaten."
"If the chance comes, I won't refuse."
Marbury nodded, satisfied. He didn't linger for long. For all his appetite, he knew the dance of networking. Too much eagerness repelled more than it attracted. He moved on, voice booming again as he greeted another cluster of guests.
James sat back down, plate half-finished, mind already cataloguing what mattered: Marbury's vanity, his appetite, his pride in excess. Weaknesses disguised as lifestyle. Tools waiting to be used.
The hall hummed with chatter and music. Beyond the tall windows, waves broke against the rocks below, the steady pulse of the ocean carrying through the glass. The chandelier swayed faintly overhead as servers refilled glasses, laughter rising in bursts.
James's focus remained razor-thin. Food was just a cover. Conversation was just a camouflage. And the mission—the real reason he tolerated these velvet chairs and hollow compliments—waited just beneath the surface.