Rex instinctively scanned his surroundings, his eyes darting from elegant face to elegant face, but there was nothing unusual—no suspicious activity, no odd expressions, no one aiming a camera or plotting anything obvious. Everyone looked… normal.
Too normal.
He frowned ever so slightly, swirling the wine in his glass like it might suddenly whisper a secret. I could've sworn I felt something… It wasn't just a glance—it was the kind of stare that made you instinctively clench, like someone was mentally undressing you with thermal vision.
But now? Just the orchestra playing. Laughter. A waiter offering truffle canapés. No obvious culprits.
Still, his rear cheeks felt spiritually threatened.
What he didn't know—what most people never realized—was that nearly everyone here was an actor in some way or another. Whether they had a Hollywood resume or not was irrelevant. These people, the upper echelon of wealth and influence, had spent their lives perfecting the art of the mask.
