Chapter 56

The sun was setting over the eastern outskirts of the city.

Behind high walls stood a private garden estate that had once belonged to a prominent statesman nearly a century ago. Seven courtyards were linked by bluestone walkways, with old bronze lanterns hanging beneath the covered corridors.

As evening settled in, the lanterns swayed gently in the cold breeze, casting pools of warm light along the stone paths.

Tonight, the estate was hosting a private gathering for art collectors.

The host was a highly respected elderly collector who opened the estate only once every few years, inviting a carefully selected group of guests to view pieces from his private collection.

There was no auction and no bidding. Only several old paintings rarely shown to outsiders, and a guest list of fewer than thirty people.

It was a small gathering, but almost everyone there carried considerable weight in the business world.

Richard stood in the main hall of the eastern courtyard.

The centerpiece of the evening hung on the wall before him: a Song dynasty landscape painted in color on silk. Under the exhibition lights, the aged brushwork had a quiet depth to it.

Richard held a glass of aged huadiao wine as he studied a cluster of reeds in the lower-right corner of the painting.

Jonathan stood half a step behind him, looking through something on his tablet.

Around the hall, more than a few guests kept glancing in Richard’s direction.

Richard wasn’t doing anything to draw attention to himself. Even so, conversations around the room seemed to shift whenever he moved or spoke.

“Mr. Sterling.”

A man in his fifties approached. His hair was already graying, but he still looked energetic and distinguished.

Holding a glass in one hand, he gave Richard a polite nod.

“What do you think of the painting?”

This was Mr. Winston, the eldest son of the elderly collector hosting tonight’s gathering. His family had substantial interests in cultural investment and finance, and Winston himself was a serious collector with a genuine eye for art.

“Not bad.”

Richard kept his eyes on the painting.

“The layered ink in the middle ground is interesting. The empty space in the upper-right corner closes a little too quickly, though. It leaves the composition slightly restrained.”

Mr. Winston paused, then laughed.

“That’s exactly what my father said when he saw it.”

The admiration in his voice was genuine.

He moved on to two smaller works displayed nearby, clearly hoping to keep Richard talking.

Richard didn’t say much, but what he did say was precise. A few observations were enough to make Mr. Winston nod repeatedly.

Naturally, that drew others over.

A businessman from the north who had made his fortune in energy praised the wine before casually steering the conversation toward a resource development project in the northwest.

Richard gave him a slight nod.

The man waited, realized that was all he was getting, and stepped back with an awkward smile.

Not long after, a wealthy young man who had recently completed a major acquisition in Southeast Asia approached with a bottle of wine.

“Mr. Sterling, my father always says that of all the businessmen he’s met, you’re the one he respects most—”

“That’s kind of him.”

Richard lifted a hand, indicating that he didn’t need a refill.

The young man stopped with the bottle still in his hand.

Richard had seen enough of the Song landscape by then.

He walked out toward the covered corridor and sat in a rosewood armchair. Jonathan handed him the tablet and quietly briefed him on two internal company matters.

Richard listened while reading through the documents.

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“Mr. Sterling!”

Another man approached from the hall.

He was slightly heavyset, dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit, a glass of wine in one hand and a broad smile on his face.

Richard glanced up.

Mr. Whitmore.

He controlled the Whitmore Group, whose businesses covered medical equipment, luxury real estate, and hotel chains. His personal wealth was considerable, enough to make him an important figure in most rooms.

Here, however, that distinction meant considerably less.

“It’s been a long time,” Mr. Whitmore said warmly.

Richard gave a small nod. “Mr. Whitmore.”

Taking that as permission, Mr. Whitmore sat in the chair beside him. He made small talk for a while before casually changing the subject.

“By the way, my wife mentioned that my younger daughter and Victoria are quite close. The girls spend a lot of time together. Victoria really has grown into an impressive young woman. I saw her at an awards ceremony recently, and the way she carried herself—”

Richard set down his glass.

The sound against the rosewood table was barely audible.

Mr. Whitmore stopped talking anyway.

Richard turned his head and looked at him.

He still remembered what Elena had told him.

Calling it a complaint wasn’t quite right. She had probably been asking him for help in her own way.

Knowing her temper, she wasn’t the type to quietly accept being pushed around. But she also knew that fighting back against people with powerful families could bring trouble of its own.

Under normal circumstances, Richard would never have remembered someone like Charlotte Whitmore.

But Elena had mentioned her.

“Your daughter?” Richard asked.

Mr. Whitmore immediately straightened.

“Yes. My younger daughter.”

“I heard she studies at Westwood?”

“Yes. Science and engineering. Her grades are quite good.”

There was a touch of paternal pride in his voice.

“Of course, she can’t compare with Victoria. Only eighteen and already with so many awards—”

Richard picked up the tea beside him.

“Doing well academically is a good thing.”

Mr. Whitmore hesitated.

Something about Richard’s tone made him uneasy, though he couldn’t quite say why.

“Of course. Absolutely.”

Richard looked toward the painting in the distance.

“But eventually, what matters most is character.”

He took a sip of tea.

“Academic achievement means very little if someone lacks basic decency. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Whitmore?”

Richard finally looked back at him.

There was the faintest smile on his face, but no warmth in it.

Mr. Whitmore went still.

He kept smiling, but the confidence he had arrived with disappeared almost immediately.

Every word Richard had said was perfectly reasonable. There was no accusation, no name mentioned, nothing Mr. Whitmore could openly object to.

But given what they had just been discussing, it was impossible to mistake the implication.

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Sterling.”

He forced the words out, his voice noticeably quieter than before.

Richard had already looked away, as though the conversation had been nothing more than a passing remark.

A few seconds later, he picked up his phone.

Mr. Whitmore had no idea what he was reading and certainly wasn’t foolish enough to look at the screen. He only noticed that Richard’s expression softened slightly.

A message had arrived.

[I’m driving!!!]

[The car you gave me! This is SO much fun! It drives so well!]

[kitten_kiss.jpg]

Richard suppressed the smile threatening to appear at the corner of his mouth and sent back a sticker of someone patting a cat on the head.

Mr. Whitmore sat there for another ten uncomfortable seconds before finding an excuse to leave.

Richard barely reacted. His attention was still on his phone.

By the time Mr. Whitmore returned to the other guests, he was still smiling, but the shirt beneath his suit jacket was damp with cold sweat.

“Sir.”

His assistant hurried over.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Mr. Whitmore shook his head and led him toward a quieter section of the corridor. Once they were out of earshot, the hand holding his wineglass trembled slightly.

“What has Charlotte been doing lately?”

The assistant immediately opened his tablet.

“Miss Whitmore’s schedule for the past month…”

Charlotte had her own personal assistant, but major public engagements still passed through the family office.

Mr. Whitmore listened for a while.

Nothing sounded particularly serious.

“Anything involving the Sterling family?”

“Yes.”

The assistant scrolled further.

“Last week, Victoria hosted a small private gathering at a vacation property. Miss Whitmore was invited. I remember you asked us to prepare a gift before she went.”

Mr. Whitmore inhaled slowly.

He knew his younger daughter well.

Charlotte had always done well academically and had won plenty of competitions growing up. He also knew exactly how poor her judgment could be.

She was jealous, impulsive, and rarely knew when to stop. Over the years, the family had cleaned up more than one mess for her. Without the Whitmore name behind her, she would have gotten herself into serious trouble long ago.

Mr. Whitmore had seen enough of the world to know that this was simply who his daughter was.

She wasn’t going to accomplish anything particularly significant on her own.

Still, Charlotte had been fortunate enough to become friends with Victoria at university.

Mr. Whitmore knew perfectly well that Charlotte was privately jealous of Victoria’s background, but he had repeatedly told his daughter to maintain that friendship. He had even rewarded her generously for doing so.

The connection was too valuable to waste.

If it somehow led to a marriage between one of his sons and the Sterling family one day, he could hardly imagine how much the Whitmores would benefit.

Even if that never happened, the friendship alone was worth maintaining.

But none of that meant Charlotte was incapable of doing something stupid.

And if she had done something at a gathering held on Sterling property, especially if Richard had happened to witness it himself, then they had a much bigger problem.

“We’re leaving.”

Mr. Whitmore raised a hand and gave Mr. Winston a distant nod in farewell.

“Take me home.”

It was nearly nine when Mr. Whitmore arrived at the family residence.

Warm lights filled the main sitting room, illuminating the expensive furnishings, but the atmosphere changed the moment he walked in.

Charlotte happened to be coming down the stairs.

She had already removed her makeup and changed into a custom velvet pajama set, but she was clearly still furious.

The moment she saw her father, she hurried down the remaining steps.

“Dad! Some bitch at school came after me again today! She keeps trying to start things with me!”

Mr. Whitmore stopped.

Charlotte was too angry to notice.

“I should’ve destroyed her last time! That shameless bitch, getting herself kept by some old man—”

Smack!

Mr. Whitmore slapped her across the face.

Charlotte never saw it coming.

Her head snapped sideways, and she stumbled into the sofa. Pain exploded across one side of her face, leaving her dazed for several seconds.

Then warm blood began to run from her nose.