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Chapter 122 – The Fundraiser
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 17:15:41 +0000 UTC
“Coming your way—Jean-Jacques Handali, senior exec at Geneva Bank. The woman on his arm? Cindy Crawford—model, Northwestern University standout, currently on a leave of absence. That’s all.”
Henry tapped his bone-conduction mic off and popped a tiny cake into his mouth.
A few yards away, Audrey Hepburn and Robert Wolders stepped forward with the warm poise of seasoned diplomats, greeting the pair. Handshakes, a quick exchange, and the women met with a light kiss on each cheek.
“Mr. Handali,” Audrey began with her trademark grace, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at the Geneva branch when I’ve visited Switzerland.”
He smiled. “Ah, that’s because I’ve been stationed in New York for quite some time. It’s normal that our paths haven’t crossed there.”
“New York is, without a doubt, a vital hub in the financial world,” Audrey said warmly. “I’m sure that after your time here, returning to Switzerland will see you in an even higher position within the bank’s leadership.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Turning to Cindy, Audrey’s smile softened further. “Miss Crawford—intelligence and beauty in one. Even my younger self might have envied you.”
Cindy laughed lightly. “That’s very kind. I’m on hiatus from Northwestern, focusing on modeling. But honestly, your achievements are what I aspire to. I’d love to ask you about the film industry sometime.”
“Anytime, dear.”
The two women slipped naturally into a conversation about breaking into film, while Handali and Robert drifted into small talk about the tense situation with that “big red empire” up north.
From his post near the buffet, Henry saw and heard everything—superhuman senses had their perks. He figured they had maybe two or three minutes before the next set of guests made their approach.
Western-style social galas might look like chaos to outsiders, but to those in the circle, there was a rhythm—an unspoken choreography. And here, the star attraction was Audrey Hepburn herself, the face of the fundraiser.
Every guest would get their turn with her. A few cordial lines, a handshake, a smile—and then they’d move along to make space for the next person. Deeper conversations or business matters? Those got scheduled for later.
It was networking in its purest form.
As for Henry? Unless he stood right in someone’s way, no one bothered him. Which left him free to nibble his way through food that probably cost more than most people’s rent. He tried not to think about how much of tonight’s “charitable donations” were funding the champagne instead of the cause.
He spotted the next pair heading toward Audrey and swallowed his last bite. “Dwayne, Wall Street. Head of the Investors’ Center. Specializes in junk stocks. The woman with him—no idea.”
Half-public fundraisers always attracted a few opportunists. And Henry’s brain wasn’t a walking facial-recognition database—if he didn’t know someone, it usually meant they weren’t worth knowing.
Audrey and Robert, just from Dwayne’s cheap suit, seemed to reach the same conclusion. But they were too polite to make it obvious. They exchanged pleasantries, declined his “brilliant investment opportunity,” and moved on.
Henry, however, was about to get company.
“A junk-stock hustler? That’s an interesting choice of words.” The voice was unmistakable—smooth, amused, with a faint bite. Tony Stark strolled up, champagne in hand, eyebrow raised.
Henry didn’t even blink. “There’s a job for everything, as long as someone’s willing to pay. Did you know there used to be people whose entire career was turning streetlights on and off?”
Tony gave him a look. “You’re making that up.”
“Not at all,” Henry said. “In the 18th and 19th centuries, before electric lighting, London’s streetlamps ran on whale oil. Kids were hired to light them at dusk, extinguish them at dawn, and refill the oil. Just because your life doesn’t need it, doesn’t mean it never existed. The Stark estate is not the whole world.”
“That’s cheating,” Tony countered. “You can’t use some ancient, obsolete job as proof.”
Henry smirked. “Your wording wasn’t time-specific. If I were a demon, I’d have just claimed your soul on a technicality.”
Tony opened his mouth to fire back—
Henry’s mic clicked on. “Howard Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, and Maria Stark. Approaching Audrey now.”
Tony looked up just in time to see his parents making their way toward Audrey. Even from a few steps away, the deference from other guests was obvious.
The would-be investor they’d just left didn’t dare complain—though his date looked like she was one second away from cozying up to Howard in front of Maria.
Mic off, Henry said casually, “So… you came with your parents.”
Tony ignored the comment, his eyes locked on the slim band at Henry’s neck. He reached out and plucked it free before Henry could stop him.
“What’s this?”
Henry, mid-bite on a mini pancake, didn’t flinch. “Microphone.”
“That the thing you’ve been using to feed her intel? And those weird things on her ears—they’re the receivers?”
Two questions. Two syllables. “Mm-hmm.”
