Chapter 3 — The Summit Opens: Watching the Vanity Fair Burn

Chapter 3 — The Summit Opens: Watching the Vanity Fair Burn

The International Convention Center of A-City shimmered like a palace built on money and lies.

Light spilled from the massive crystal chandeliers overhead, refracting off every diamond necklace, every champagne glass, every carefully practiced social smile, until the entire hall felt blinding—so bright it bordered on grotesque.

This place was a marketplace of status.

A hunting ground dressed in silk and glass.

Lena Shore pushed open the door and stepped inside.

She wore a white shirt so washed it was almost gray, sleeves casually rolled to her elbows, revealing a clean wrist marked with faint, old scars. Black work pants. Worn black canvas sneakers.

No gown.

No jewelry.

Not even makeup.

She stopped at the entrance.

In a sea of tuxedos and glittering mermaid gowns, she was the drop of cold water falling into burning oil—sharp, violent, impossible to ignore.

The hostess by the door froze for a full three seconds, mouth opening, ready to block her, but Lena cast her a single glance—cold, sharp, and chilling enough to slam the girl in place.

That wasn’t the look of someone crashing a banquet.

That was the look of someone here to shut the place down.

Lena walked straight in.

Whispers rose instantly, buzzing around her like flies.

“Who the hell is that? Wrong event?”

“Wait… isn’t she that ‘Island Goddess’ from the internet?”

“That? A goddess? I thought she’d look ethereal or something. She looks like a village girl. Her pants even have mud on them.”

“I heard she’s old Professor Qin’s daughter—the one who caused that huge scandal. Got her own dad killed, sold her boyfriend out, and now she dares come back?”

Lena’s gaze stayed perfectly steady.

Her brain automatically filtered the noise.

Noise level: 65dB.

Useful information: 0.

She found the darkest corner of the hall, sat down, and pulled out a scuffed notebook from her canvas bag. A cheap two-dollar pen clicked open in her hand.

Tonight’s objective was simple:
The $20 million Global Ocean Restoration Grant.

The lights dimmed.

A sharp spotlight snapped onto the center stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the CEO of CetoCorp—Mr. Ethan Grant!”

Thunderous applause. A few whistles.

Lena’s pen paused. She lifted her head.

Seven years.

The boy who once accompanied her through stormy nights to guard a single coral seedling…

was dead and gone.

The man onstage now wore a navy three-piece suit cut so precisely it could slice air. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. The Patek Philippe on his wrist caught the light like a blade.

He stood there radiating a simple message:

Untouchable.

Ethan Grant held the mic with one hand, eyes sweeping lazily across the hall with the confidence of a businessman and the arrogance of someone used to standing above others.

But when his gaze landed on the lone splash of white in the corner, his movements stalled.

His eyes narrowed sharply. His pupils contracted.

Shock? Disgust?

Probably both.

Beside him stood Cecilia Howard, dressed in a shimmering silver gown that clung to her curves. The diamond necklace on her neck was easily worth a small apartment. She clung to Ethan’s arm like she wanted to merge into him, staking her claim with all the subtlety of a billboard.

Cecilia spotted Lena.

Her perfect social smile twitched, froze for half a second, then melted into something far more amused. She leaned toward Ethan, whispered a few sentences, then gave a meaningful gesture toward the media zone.

A moment later, Ethan’s voice boomed through the hall’s premium sound system.

“I’m hnored to stand here tonight.”

His low, magnetic voice drew sighs from several socialites.

“But recently, I’ve noticed an unfortunate trend.” Ethan’s tone dropped, turning cold.

“Some individuals parade around under the banner of environmentalism, but what they’re really doing… is performance art.”

The giant screen behind him lit up.

An image appeared.

Lena’s now-famous “ghost net tearing” photo—her silhouette against stormy seas.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

“No data. No scientific basis. Just a few dramatic photos to manipulate the public for personal gain.” Ethan’s cold smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze stabbed toward Lena.

“Such so-called ‘eco warriors’ are not only an insult to science—they’re a threat to commercial order. CetoCorp will not bankroll such cheap emotional stunts.”

Boom.

Every camera in the room swiveled toward Lena.

Flash after flash exploded in her face.

Seven years ago, Lena Shore would’ve run away crying.

Now?

She didn’t even lift her head.

Instead, she calmly wrote in her notebook:

[Sample A: Ethan Grant — Severe cognitive bias. Logical chain broken. Recommend scrapping and remolding.]

She didn’t waste oxygen.

The review panel for the grant wasn’t stupid.

Ethan finished his speech and stepped offstage to a flood of flattery. Cecilia strutted beside him like a peacock in mating season.

The banquet began. The atmosphere loosened.

Lena closed her notebook and grabbed a glass of lemon water, ready to approach the grant committee—when someone blocked her way.

“Well, well. Thought I was seeing things.”

A wave of pungent perfume hit her first.

Melissa Kane approached, swirling a glass of red wine, her fire-red gown making her look like a walking gift box.

Former college roommate. Now a minor socialite clawing her way up the food chain.

“Lena Shore, where did you buy that outfit? A construction supply store? This is a summit, not your little fishing village festival.” Melissa looked her up and down, smirking.

“Heard you’re playing with dead fish these days? Such a waste—our department’s belle turned seaweed farmer.”

The surrounding social wives giggled, their judgmental eyes sharp as blades.

Lena sipped her lemon water. “Move. You’re blocking the light.”

Melissa’s face twisted. “Still pretending? Everyone knows what you did! Selling your team’s data for money, killing your own father from anger, getting expelled… And now you dare come here? What, ran out of money on that stupid island and came to catch a new sugar daddy?”

“Melissa.” Lena finally lifted her eyes, staring at the wine in her hand.

“That wine needs ten more minutes of air. The tannins haven’t opened. It’ll taste bitter. Also, your foundation shade is two tones too light. Your neck and face are different colors.”

“You—!” Melissa nearly threw her drink.

“What’s going on here?”

A soft voice drifted in.

Cecilia walked over, arm wrapped around Ethan. Ethan stood with one hand in his pocket, looking down at Lena with an unreadable expression—emotion swirling underneath like a storm.

“Cecilia, she’s being disgusting!” Melissa complained immediately.

Cecilia gave her hand a pat, then turned to Lena with a gentle smile.

“Lena, long time no see. Even though we had… disagreements before, you’re still a guest tonight. If you need money, you can just tell me. You don’t have to embarrass yourself in a place like this.”

Her eyes swept over Lena’s clothes with delicate contempt.

Ethan’s voice came down like frost.

“If it’s about money, go to finance and pick up twenty thousand. Call it my personal charity. Then leave. Don’t make me call security.”

Lena put down her glass.

The glass tapped the marble tabletop—clear and crisp as a warning bell.

She lifted her head and met Ethan’s gaze.

Her eyes were clear, bright.

And cold as abyssal water.

“Mr. Grant, how generous.” Lena’s voice wasn’t loud, but every syllable landed perfectly.

“But you’d better save that money. You’ll need it for the fines.”

Ethan’s brows snapped down. “What did you say?”

Cecilia laughed lightly. “Lena, are you having some sort of episode?”

Lena ignored Ethan and turned to Cecilia. A faint smile curved her lips—small, white, harmless.

Yet chilling.

“CetoCorp’s cargo ship Aquila, last month on the 14th—north latitude 32 degrees. To save fuel costs, you didn’t activate the ballast water treatment system. You dumped four thousand tons of heavy-metal-contaminated ballast water directly into the open ocean.”

Cecilia’s smile shattered.

Her hand jerked violently around her wine glass.

Silence dropped over the surrounding crowd.

Several shipping executives paled instantly.

“And,” Lena continued as calmly as reading lab notes, “your H-3 filtration system hasn’t had its filters changed in three months. Based on my calculations, the discharged water now contains more lead than industrial waste. Cecilia, is this what you call green shipping?”

“You—You’re talking nonsense!” Cecilia’s voice cracked. “How would you even know—”

She froze mid-sentence.

That was confidential data.

Top-tier confidential.

How did this woman know?

Lena took a step closer, her presence sharp as a drawn blade.

“The new International Marine Convention takes effect on the first of next month. If confirmed, the fine is fifteen percent of annual revenue. Plus suspension of your shipping license for six months.” Lena tilted her head.

“So tell me, Cecilia—who do you think Ethan will make take the fall?”

Cecilia’s knees buckled. She nearly collapsed, staring at Ethan in horror.

Ethan’s face darkened to storm clouds. His eyes bored into Lena like he was seeing a stranger.

“You investigated me,” he growled.

Lena shrugged, picking up a small piece of cake, turning the plate with her finger.

“I have a functioning brain. I can read ocean current charts. Unlike some people, whose heads are filled with mush.”

With that, she didn’t spare either of them another glance.

She walked toward the terrace, back straight, steps steady.

Sharp as a blade leaving its sheath.

Behind her, jaws dropped one by one.

Complete, breathless silence swallowed the entire hall.