The ballroom looks nothing like a battlefield.
Crystal chandeliers refract the light into gold across polished marble floors. Waiters glide like choreography, champagne balanced with military precision. A string quartet performs something bright and celebratory—the kind of music designed to make million-dollar contracts feel romantic.
If power had a dress code, tonight it would be black tie.
Ethan stands near the center of it all, one hand wrapped loosely around a champagne flute, accepting congratulations with that easy, practiced confidence he was born into. He doesn't gloat. He doesn't need to. Winning suits him.
Marcus, by contrast, looks like a man who treats celebration as a logistical obligation. His tie is slightly loosened, his expression faintly amused as someone attempts to explain to him how "visionary" the partnership is. He nods politely. Vision is profitable. That is all that matters.
