The Tycoon's Odyssey

Gukesh's sharp eyes scanned Evan from head to toe and frowned slightly before glancing at Roy with disbelief.

"He certainly looks like you, Roy. Those blue eyes are Claire's for sure," Gukesh said, his voice gruff. "But why does he look so much more… handsome than you?"

Evan smirked faintly, but Roy sighed. "It's called youth, Gukesh. Something you and I left behind long ago."

Prakash chuckled. "Youth or not, he carries himself well. A lot better than I expected." Turning to Evan, he asked. "So, you're the one who took down the Rajputs? Tell me, was it as effortless as they say?"

Evan met Prakash's gaze, his tone calm yet firm. "Effortless is never the word I'd use, Mr. Bhosale. It took planning, precision, and a bit of audacity. But yes, it was handled."

"You are quite audacious," Gukesh commented.

Kabul Uday raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Audacity, huh? Let's hope that audacity doesn't land all of us in trouble with the Federation agent."

Evan's calm expression didn't waver. "I assure you, Mr. Uday, everything that will happen tonight is under control. The Federation agent will leave impressed."

Gukesh grunted. "We'll see. For now, let's hope you live up to the confidence Roy has in you."

Roy stepped in, his voice smooth but commanding. "Gentlemen, this is neither the time nor the place for doubts. Evan has proven himself capable, and tonight, he'll prove it again."

With his words, the tension eased slightly, and the group moved toward the main event area, the weight of the evening settling over them.

The vibrant chatter of the banquet hall fell to a whisper as Evan stood before Gukesh, Prakash, and Kabul, their sharp critiques still lingering in the air.

"Too young," Gukesh scoffed, his tone dismissive. "He's got a baby face. Doesn't look like someone who could lead a negotiation, let alone a major operation."

Prakash chimed in, his voice measured but biting. "Experience matters, Roy. You can't just throw someone like him into the arena. Leadership is more than just about looks and luck."

Kabul smirked, adding the final jab. "And charisma—let's not forget that. Does he even have it? A leader should command attention, and make people follow them just by walking into a room. But him? He's… fine, I guess."

Each critique was like a calculated blow meant to undermine. Yet, Evan's reaction only deepened their feeling of unease. His smile grew wider, his relaxed demeanor unwavering, as though he found their attempts to cut him down amusing.

Finally, he stepped forward. His posture was straight and unyielding, the smile lingering but now carrying an edge that was hard to place. Standing tall before the three men, he spoke, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of iron.

"I see trust is an issue for all of you," he said, every word deliberate.

The three men froze, their expressions shifting as a sudden chill seemed to sweep through the space. The air around them seemed to have gotten heavier, forcing them to have shallow breaths. It was as if the temperature had dropped, though no one else appeared to notice.

Evan's once-naive smile morphed into something sinister, his sharp blue eyes now glinting with an icy, predatory intent. The aura around him shifted completely. He no longer appeared a young man out of his depth, but someone far more commanding and inherently threatening.

"Let me remind you of the Rajputs," he said, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch just enough to make them feel uncomfortable.

"They didn't last even a day," he continued, his tone soft, almost conversational, but the weight behind the words was suffocating.

"Indra's naval fleet fought quite fiercely but also didn't last longer and crumbled within a day before the Dilli fell under my hands."

Evan took a measured step closer, his presence dominating the space between them. "Tell me," he continued, tilting his head slightly, "do you think you would last a day?"

The three exchanged uneasy glances, the bravado they had displayed moments ago faltering. For the first time, they seemed to realize they had vastly underestimated the man before them.

Evan leaned back slightly, his smile returning to something almost neutral. "Leadership isn't about how old you look or how charismatic your entrance is," he said evenly. "It's about results. The Rajputs underestimated me—just as you're doing now. And look where that got them."

Without waiting for a response, Evan turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the three men in stunned silence as he took a glass and then raised it to them.

"Since I am the head," he said smoothly, "won't you greet me properly?"

Watching from the side, the corner of Roy's lips curled into a faint smirk, pride gleaming in his eyes as he observed his son.

Meanwhile, noticing the exchange, Claire approached Roy and whispered, "Will they still doubt our son?"n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Roy chuckled and shook his head. "Not even for a second."

_____

Amid the banter, an announcement rippled through the hall, silencing every little chatter.

The banquet hall fell eerily silent as the doors swung open, revealing a man with sleek blonde hair stepping inside.

His sharp features were accentuated by a stern expression, and his rigid posture demanded attention. He wore a tailored black suit with silver accents—a simple yet authoritative style that radiated both power and sophistication. The soft echo of his polished leather shoes punctuated the silence, his every step deliberate and his aura dominating the room without a single word.

Fabiano Carlyne.

The mere mention of his name was enough to send a ripple of unease through the attendees.

Representatives from the Federation seldom mingled with outsiders unless the matter was of grave importance. The discomfort in the hall was palpable; forced smiles faltered, and quiet whispers died out. Even the five families, including Roy's, struggled to maintain a semblance of composure but even they seemed only slightly more at ease.

Evan observed the tension in the room with keen eyes, noting how every gaze cautiously followed Fabiano's movements. His demeanor was cold and calculating, his strides precise and measured. He acknowledged no one and offered no pleasantries—every gesture an implicit reminder of his dominance.

Instead, he strode purposefully through the gathering as if the rest of the attendees were beneath his notice.