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Chapter 140 – The Nature of a Social Gala
🕑 Added 2025-08-28 15:23:00 +0000 UTC
The death of Howard Stark dominated the news cycle for days. Talk shows, late-night hosts, papers, TV broadcasts—every headline was stamped with his name, as if the world intended to stretch this story all the way into next year.
But within the week, the spotlight shifted. A far bigger story broke, one that made even Howard Stark’s death feel like yesterday’s gossip.
On December 25th, 1991, the president of the Red Empire announced his resignation. By the next day—December 26th—the empire itself had collapsed.
For the powerful players circling the board, it was an open buffet. The old empire’s carcass hadn’t even cooled before they began tearing into it, scrambling for assets, resources, influence—anything that could be claimed before order was restored. Until then, the region was nothing short of a capitalist feeding frenzy.
Compared to that? Stark Industries suddenly felt… trivial. Not worthless, but hardly worth the effort. Like a half-picked chicken wing when there’s an entire roast on the table.
Those with enough clout to meddle in Stark Industries now found an infinitely bigger, easier meal to feast on. And even those without that level of power still had ways of dipping their fingers into the spoils of the fallen empire.
Naturally, attention shifted. Stark Industries slipped from the headlines as if it had never mattered at all. The media, which had once covered the company obsessively, went silent. Henry—curious as he was—couldn’t dig up a single update.
He found himself wondering: If not for the empire’s collapse, what would’ve happened to Stark Industries?
But speculation was pointless.
The vultures who’d planned to use Howard Stark’s death as a chance to cripple Stark Industries were probably bawling in the bathroom now. Nobody expected the Red Empire to implode this quickly, or for its leaders to willingly pull the plug on themselves. No one in their right mind would ignore a prize that big just to keep harassing Stark Industries.
Henry had thought that with the world rattled by these two massive events, Audrey Hepburn’s charity galas might have slowed down a little. Instead, they only grew livelier.
One evening, as they drove back to the hotel after another glittering banquet, Robert Wards groaned from the back seat.
“Man, you guys have no idea. These galas are getting insane. Every single conversation is about the Red Empire—what’s left of it, who’s circling, where the cracks are, who’s got leverage, who’s weak, how much profit there is to make, and what risks they’re willing to take. It’s like everyone’s rehearsing for a corporate war, not sipping champagne for the UNICEF fund.”
Robert wasn’t ranting at Audrey. The retired actress never shied away from hearing that kind of talk, but she wasn’t the type to gossip. His real audience was Henry, hands steady on the wheel.
Robert loved these galas—the chance to weave through the movers and shakers of the world, brushing shoulders with power and pretending, for a moment, that he belonged among them. The only thing better than experiencing it himself was bragging about it afterward.
Henry made a good listener. He wasn’t in it to join the game like Robert; he treated it like live theater. Watching billionaires play at empire-building was entertainment enough.
So, when Robert grumbled, Henry played along. “Yeah, they really are over the top. Half the time I think I’ve walked into a war council instead of a fundraiser for kids.”
Robert chuckled. “Henry, don’t be so surprised. This is what social galas are really about.”
“Oh, really? I thought they were just excuses for bored rich people to eat, drink, and gossip.”
“Hah! Not a chance. You think people who deal in millions waste time on small talk? Even the trophy wives in gowns aren’t just there to look pretty. That’s all surface. The real game is underneath.”
Henry smirked. “Alright then, Mr. Insider. Enlighten me.”
Having an eager audience lit Robert up. Audrey, sitting gracefully in the back, let the two younger men go at it.
Robert leaned forward, animated. “Every public gala is a networking hub, plain and simple. With a cover story like ‘charity,’ everyone can mingle without suspicion. Deals get pitched, alliances forged, introductions made—it’s the perfect camouflage.
“And since there are so many people in the room, it’s easy to expand your circle. Even someone with spare cash lying around can walk out with a new opportunity.
“Now imagine if these conversations all happened in private boardrooms. One leaked photo, one guest list printed in a paper, and everyone would know exactly what was going on. Bad for business.
“But at a gala? The press just sees champagne and sequins. They’ll never know half the real deals being made.”
Robert smirked. “Even the women you think are just arm candy? Half of them are running messages between people who don’t want to be seen together. The ones trying to drag billionaires into side rooms for fun? That’s decoration. The real players don’t waste time like that.”
Henry glanced in the mirror at Hepburn. “Boss, you knew all this?”
She smiled—warm, elegant, and sharp. “Of course I did. You think I’m naïve? I know exactly what’s being said between the lines at these parties. If I wanted to, I could introduce the right people and play matchmaker for their little schemes.
“But that’s not my role, nor my interest. My job is to raise money for UNICEF. And whatever their true intentions, no one’s leaving without at least paying the entry fee.”
Henry chuckled, finally getting it. “True. Some of these guys show up to every event. You’d think they had a passion for saving children—until you see the checks they write. Just big enough to look respectable, never more.”
Hepburn’s philosophy was simple: everyone gets what they came for. As long as their games didn’t interfere with hers, she wasn’t going to play morality police.
Henry leaned back, amused. Rich people and their endless games. For him, it was just another day of popcorn entertainment.
