Chapter 293

The gala officially began at six o'clock. Since Andrew and Dylan were absent from the dance floor, they found seats to sample the gourmet offerings while observing Finley and Yvonne.

The West End gala attracted Jayrodale's elite, and the dining area featured only premium delicacies.

"There are some real beauties here, like that Serena," Dylan remarked admiringly. "I wouldn't mind getting to know such a sultry woman."

Andrew gave him a quizzical look. "You're sick—you've got Casanova Syndrome."

"Mr. Lloyd, is this Casanova Syndrome serious?" Dylan asked anxiously, knowing Andrew's medical diagnoses were never to be taken lightly.

Andrew peeled a lobster tail, ate it, and shook his head. "This condition is usually incurable."

"Incurable?" Dylan's face paled. "Mr. Lloyd, am I going to die?"

"You won't die," Andrew laughed, easing Dylan's apprehension.

"Mr. Lloyd, I've never heard of this Casanova Syndrome before. Is it real?" Dylan inquired curiously.

Andrew glanced at him and replied casually, "This condition has existed since ancient times, just unnamed until now. The symptoms include lusting after other men's wives and having...peculiar tastes."

"That's considered a disease?" Dylan was dumbfounded. "I bet ninety percent of men worldwide have this condition."

Andrew shook his head with a smile. "I wouldn't know about that, but I don't have it."

Dylan grinned. "You don't have it now, Mr. Lloyd, but wait until you're in your thirties or forties! After all, other men's wives always seem more appealing than your own."

Andrew was speechless. Over the past few days, he'd realized that despite Dylan's rough exterior, he was quite the ladies' man. It was likely Dylan, like Atlas, had his share of mistresses.

Nonetheless, Andrew remained unconcerned. It would have been more surprising if Dylan, a local power player, were completely pure and innocent.

"My apologies for keeping everyone waiting," Natasha announced, making a grand entrance. "Please, enjoy yourselves!"

She was elegantly dressed in a designer gown, both alluring and sophisticated. All eyes were immediately drawn to her, particularly her curves, though she maintained a dignified aloofness befitting the queen of West End.

"Madam Vostokoff, may I have the honor of your first dance?" Finley approached with a smile.

Natasha batted her eyelashes. "Mr. Moore, don't you have Ms. Puller as your partner? Wouldn't she be upset if you asked a widow like me to dance?"

Finley replied unabashedly, "No worries, I can dance with you first, then with her."

Though still smiling, Natasha declined. "Although you look quite dashing tonight, Mr. Moore, I already have another dance partner in mind."

Finley's grin turned mischievous. "Who else here is worthy of dancing with you besides me? Surely you must be joking?"

Before Natasha could respond, several voices chimed in to flatter Finley.

"That's right! No one is more qualified to dance with Madam Vostokoff tonight than Mr. Moore."

"Finley is young, wealthy, and skilled in martial arts—not to mention his extraordinary background. He's the only perfect match to be Madam Vostokoff's partner!"

"Madam Vostokoff is a queen in her own right, and Mr. Moore is a dashing prince. Together, they'd be nothing short of perfection!"

Dylan spat out his drink and muttered, "These bootlickers really have no shame or principles when it comes to sucking up to Finley."

Andrew chuckled, observing the eagerness of those currying favor with Finley.