"Please, can we all keep quiet… Mr. Noah wants to say something…"
Zane's frown carved deeper lines into his face.
He watched—appalled, irritated—as the caller meekly handed over the microphone to the stranger who had already bewitched the entire room simply by existing.
The man had barely spoken, yet he held every pair of eyes, every fluttering fan, every greedy business shark in his palm.
Zane's jaw ticked. Of course, this was how his night would go.
Then, he heard the rustle beside him, to the left—a ranking government official leaning forward in awe, whispering urgently into his phone:
"Bring the contract folder. No, immediately… yes, that one. Someone important is here."
Zane's teeth gritted so hard a headache spiked behind his eyes. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
He had come here for contacts. For business. For rebuilding the bridges his father's wickedness had burned.
