Chapter 34: Evelyn's Countermove

The ballroom of The Dorchester was a galaxy of crystal and gold. A thousand chandeliers, or so it seemed, blazed overhead, their light cascading over women in couture gowns and men in impeccably tailored tuxedos. The air was a heady mix of expensive perfume, champagne bubbles, and the low, cultured hum of immense wealth and influence. This was the annual "Horizons Foundation" gala, one of the most exclusive events on the London social calendar, and Evelyn Voss was its radiant, untouchable queen.

She moved through the crowd with a predator’s grace, a vision in a column of icy silver silk. Her smile was calibrated to perfection—warm enough to be charming, distant enough to remain authoritative. She paused to exchange pleasantries with a Saudi prince, shared a laugh with the editor of the Financial Times, and gently laid a hand on the arm of a nervous junior minister, putting him instantly at ease. To every eye, she was the picture of stoic leadership, steering the good ship Rogers Industries through turbulent waters with a steady hand.

"A testimony to your fortitude, Evelyn," said Lord Harrington-a white-haired old-money banker-taking up a glass of Krug from a passing waiter. "To host this gala, under the. circumstances. Speaks volumes about your fortitude."

Evelyn's smile never wavered. "The work of the Horizons Foundation is more important than any temporary corporate turbulence, Charles. The children's hospitals don't stop needing funds because of a few sensational headlines." She delivered the line with just the right blend of humility and steel, and Lord Harrington nodded, his respect evident.

It was a masterclass in narrative control. The "temporary turbulence" was the near-total collapse of a global empire. The "sensational headlines" were about her CEO's alleged criminality and mental breakdown. By hosting this gala, by standing here, flawless and unshakeable, she was broadcasting a single, powerful message: I am the stability. I am the future. Anton Rogers is the past.

But underneath the sparkling sheen, her brain was a fortress under silent siege. The one fired at Rogers Tower hadn't been a sledgehammer of an attack but a scalpel. It had spooked her. It didn't have the blunt fingerprints of a rival corporation or any greedy hacker. It was elegant, surgical, and bore the chilling signature of someone who knew the system architecture all too well. Someone like Sabatine Stalker.

But Stalker was an escapee, a brute-force tool. This felt… otherwise. It felt like a play of the board she hadn't expected. And then there was Anton. Gone. Not huddled in fear in some clinic, but gone. Like smoke. The combination was disquieting.

She needed to win. An actual, irreversible move of equipping her position and financing the next, last stage of Aegis Zero.

Excusing herself from a conversation about modern art, she glided towards the ladies' lounge, a sanctuary of marble and gilded mirrors. She entered a private stall, the lock clicking with a sound of finality. The roar of the gala diminished to a muffled thrum.

From a hidden compartment in her silver clutch, she produced not a lipstick, but a device the size of a credit card, with a sleek, fold-out screen and a small keypad. It was a one-time pad, encrypted, and untraceable, a ghost phone for a ghost transaction.

Her fingers, wearing nothing but a single diamond, perfect in its clarity, moved with a light touch over the keypad. She reached a banking interface said to have only three intelligence agencies in the world using it. The screen glowed with a soft, ominous light of blue on her cool, unwavering eyes.

The account she navigated to was one of a dozen shells within shells, a Russian nesting doll of financial obscurity. It was labelled “Peregrine Investments.” The destination account was another phantom, this one in the Cayman Islands, its name a declaration of intent she allowed herself a small, cold smile to appreciate: “Aegis Resurrection.”

This was real money. Not the paltry two million used to frame Stalker. This was the first installment of her f*e for delivering a neutered Rogers Industries to the “Rogers” client faction and their silent partners. This was the money that would secure her a seat on the new, consolidated board—the money that would make her not just wealthy, but a permanent architect of global power.

She entered the amount. It was an amount so large it would have made the socialites sipping champagne outside gasp. She double-checked the encrypted routing numbers. Then she pressed the final key.

On the screen, there was one word: "COMPLETE."

It was transferred. The money vanished from the first non-existent entity into the second, without leaving a wake in the financial system. Aegis was more than just a prototype; it was now a fully funded project to its new owners. Resurrection was nigh.

She folded the device away, her expression serene once more. As she stepped out of the stall, she caught her reflection in the mirror. The poised, powerful, and utterly ruthless woman stared back. She had just committed an act of grand treason, and yet her hand didn't even quiver as she reapplied her lipstick.

Returning to the ballroom, she was met by a fawning event coordinator. “Ms. Voss, they’re ready for your speech.”

She took the stage to a wave of respectful applause. The spotlight found her, making the silver of her dress gleam. She spoke of hope, of resilience, of the future. Her voice was clear and strong, each word weaving a tapestry of corporate responsibility and human compassion. She was magnificent.

But as she spoke, her eyes, unseen by the adoring crowd, scanned the room. She was looking for ghosts. For the tell-tale shift of a shoulder that was too disciplined, for a gaze that was too assessing. The hack had been a message. Anton’s disappearance was a question. They were out there. The disgraced king and his shadow.

And as she pledged millions to charity, the irony was a private, bitter pill. She was building her legacy with one hand and burning down another’s with the other. The gala was a beautiful lie, a stage play for the benefit of the world. The real work, the transfer of power and the securing of her destiny, had just happened in a bathroom stall, on a screen that now held no memory of it.

She finished her speech to thunderous applause, descending from the stage to be enveloped by well-wishers. She was the picture of success. But beneath the chandeliers and the adulation, a cold certainty settled in her gut. The game had entered a new, more dangerous phase. The countermove was complete. Now, she waited for the inevitable, answering the move from the darkness. The pact between the billionaire and his bodyguard had just been met with a multi-million-dollar declaration of war.

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