My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 228

Chapter 228: The Gala

[Jake’s POV]

The Grand Lisboa was a towering lotus flower of gold and neon, dominating the Macau skyline.

From the street it looked like it was on fire. Lights crawled up its curves, reflecting off the black water of the harbor. Cars rolled up the curved drive one after another, tires hissing on pavement that was still damp from rain earlier. The air was humid and heavy. It stuck to my skin. It smelled like salt, diesel, and the faint sweetness of orchids from the entrance planters, cut through with expensive cologne.

I arrived in the back of a rented Rolls-Royce.

The leather seats were cold against the back of my thighs. The cabin smelled like leather conditioner and the faint metallic tang of the AC. My suit was black. A flawless Tom Ford tuxedo. Julian Croft’s suit. The fabric was cool and smooth against my shirt and it had weight to it. When I moved, it made a soft sound, like silk sliding over itself.

The Julian Croft persona was fully active. I projected an aura of bored, untouchable wealth.

The car door opened. Flashbulbs hit me immediately.

I stepped onto the red carpet. The flashes left white spots in my vision. They popped and popped, hot and bright. My shoes clicked on the marble of the entrance. Each step echoed. A valet in white gloves took the keys without looking at me.

Inside, the heat changed.

The lobby was warmer than outside. The air was thick and dry from all the lights. Chandeliers hung down in tiers, each crystal catching the light and breaking it into sharp pieces across the floor. The air smelled like perfume. Dozens of them layered together. Floral, citrus, musk. Under that was champagne and butter and the faint metallic scent of the AC vents pushing cold air from above.

Music drifted down from upstairs. A string quartet. Violins, high and clear. A cello underneath, low enough that I felt it in my chest.

"Comms check," I murmured, adjusting my bowtie. Silk against my neck.

"Reading you, Julian," Claire said in my ear. Her voice was crisp. "Your invitation cleared the security desk. You are officially in the room. Nia is standing by to receive the data packet."

"Copy," I said.

A hostess smiled with teeth that were too white. "Good evening, Mr. Croft. Right this way for the charity gala."

The hallway to the ballroom was long. The carpet was deep and it swallowed sound. The walls were lined with paintings behind glass. In the reflection I saw myself moving. The suit. The posture. The face that wasn’t mine. The air here was cooler and it smelled faintly of orchids and wood polish.

Then the doors opened.

Sound hit me like a wall.

Laughter. Dozens of conversations layered over each other. The clink of glass on glass. The soft scrape of shoes on marble. The quartet was louder now, filling the high ceiling.

The ballroom was massive. A massive space dripping with crystal chandeliers and filled with the city’s elite.

Gold was everywhere. Gold on the columns. Gold trim on the walls. Gold light pouring down from chandeliers that looked like frozen explosions. The ceiling was painted with clouds and gods. Three stories up.

People filled the space. Tuxedos. Evening gowns. Diamonds that caught the light and threw it back. The room glittered.

Waiters moved through the crowd with silver trays. I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The glass was cold. Condensation wet my fingers. The bubbles tickled my nose. I didn’t drink yet.

"I have a visual on the target," Nia added in my ear. "Superintendent Cho is near the center of the ballroom, speaking with the Deputy Commissioner. She’s wearing a dark blue evening gown. Her phone is in a small clutch purse resting on the cocktail table beside her."

I moved through the crowded ballroom. The air conditioning was too strong. It raised goosebumps on the back of my neck. It smelled like champagne and expensive perfume.

I didn’t make a direct line for Cho. I mingled.

I exchanged brief, meaningless pleasantries with a few tech executives who recognized the Croft alias from the fabricated business journals Claire had planted online. One of them breathed whiskey on me. Another’s cufflink caught on my sleeve with a tiny snag. The floor was so polished I could see the chandeliers reflected in it, distorted.

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