Chapter 582
Several luxury cars pulled up outside the nightclub. The club's boss rushed out, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes fell upon the "Stewart" insignia on the license plates. Fear visibly shook him. The Stewart license plates were exclusive to the immensely influential Stewart family, whose global economic power had gone unchallenged for generations. Their wealth and authority were unparalleled; even the slightest action could reverberate throughout Crownridge.
Why would such a family visit a place like this? He wondered, his heart pounding. He'd panicked upon learning of their arrival, convinced he'd somehow offended them and they'd come to settle the score.
"Mr. Stewart," the boss stammered, his deference palpable.
Behind him, a line of bodyguards and enforcers stood equally subdued, their expressions tight. A hush fell over the nightclub; the usual lively atmosphere replaced by an oppressive silence. Patrons and staff held their breath, terrified of causing offense.
The boss's eyes scanned the group, settling on Percival. He thought, These people exude an air of sophistication and power—clearly heirs of affluent families. Yet, Percival stands out. Among recognizable faces like Stellan and Francis, well-known celebrities, only one man remained an enigma—the head of the Stewart family.
With practiced politeness, a professional smile fixed on his face, the boss approached. "Everything inside has been prepared for you. We've reserved the number one suite upstairs," he said confidently.
"Good," Percival replied in a low, commanding voice.
A bodyguard stepped forward, handing over a thick wad of cash. The boss stared, surprised by this unexpected gratuity. Most patrons tipped after their visit; this was unheard of. Running his fingers over the stack, he felt a surge of excitement.
He followed the group into the club, which had been cleared of other guests, leaving an eerie quiet. Leading them upstairs, he opened the door to the number one suite, typically off-limits and reserved for the elite; a place where even money couldn't guarantee entry.
After ensuring the group was settled, the boss instructed the staff to bring drinks, fruit, and snacks before quietly departing.
"So, this is a nightclub!" Odalys exclaimed, walking to the window. Hearing the commotion below, she opened it, revealing the auction stage in full view. The room was packed: men with arms around young women, wealthy older women with younger escorts, and a collection of rowdy onlookers, many seemingly from the underworld.
"Tonight's auction begins now!" someone shouted from the stage.
A figure was pushed onto the platform—a man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt, several buttons undone to reveal a muscular chest. His hair was neatly combed, though a few strands fell across his forehead. His raw, magnetic energy set him apart from the typical crowd.
"Wait, isn't that Henry?" someone muttered in disbelief.
Henry's presence stunned the room. Some knew him socially, others in business. His appearance here was utterly unexpected.
"The president of the Bennett Group on the auction block? What's going on?" someone asked.
Others whistled and cheered, their excitement growing as Henry stood motionless on stage, his vacant eyes unfocused, as though oblivious to the noise.
"He's been drugged," Selah muttered, popping a peanut into her mouth.
Freya leaned closer. "You've got to be kidding me! That's Henry! Odalys, is this why you brought us here? The president of the Bennett Group, up for auction—it's unbelievable!" Her eyes gleamed with excitement; she'd always disliked the Bennett family. Now, with Henry's reputation in ruins, her glee was palpable.
"Henry?" Selah stared intently, recognition dawning. "It is him! I've met him before. He's always been so proud—this makes no sense! How could he end up here?" Her shock was evident.
Stellan and Francis, drawn by the commotion, arrived, their expressions a mix of disbelief and unease.
Odalys remained silent, her gaze fixed on Henry. Percival moved beside her. "Do you see anything unusual?" he asked quietly.
"Interesting," she replied, her eyes narrowing. "Henry's under the influence of the forbidden scents we saw earlier—the same one Hannah used in the hotel. It's even from the same bottle. Looks like she's been putting it to good use."
Selah shivered at the mention of forbidden scents.
"How could forbidden scents make someone so dazed? Isn't it said that using them makes the other person completely devoted?" Freya asked, confused.
"Different scents have different effects," Odalys explained patiently. "If applied to someone's skin and then burned, causing inhalation, the inhaler becomes utterly devoted. But in this case, Sophia didn't apply it to herself. She used it directly on Henry. The scent muddles the mind without the proper connection, leaving the person disoriented, as if their consciousness is locked away. It's similar to severe autism, where the individual is cut off from reality."
Selah frowned. "Is there a way to fix it? Leaving him like this isn't fun," she said, shaking her head.
A group rushed into the room. Atlas's face paled at the sight of Henry on stage.
"Henry?" Atlas muttered, disbelieving.
Caspian's heart sank. Less than an hour ago, they'd received a message that Henry's life was in danger at the nightclub. Seeing him being auctioned off was beyond their worst fears.
"It is Henry. Why is he selling himself like this?" Sophia said in a pitiful tone, her voice laced with mock sympathy. A faint smirk played on her lips, her eyes flashing with malice. So he thought he could investigate me? Let's see if he survives this. Even if someone looks into it, they'll only trace it back to Hannah, not me, she thought.
"Shut up," Caspian snapped, his voice trembling with rage. His fists clenched, knuckles white.