World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 142: The Formal Dinner And Wine Pairing (2)

The soft chime of crystal glasses and low, melodic piano filled the air as guests slowly began to settle into their assigned seats.

James moved with quietly, with a calm and composed expression, and posture.

A uniformed server guided him to his seat at one of the long, elegant tables draped in ivory linen. Gold-trimmed dinnerware and crystal glasses lined each setting.

His name card rested just above the fine silverware, nestled between two high-profile individuals.

One of them belonged to a soft-spoken woman who ran a private art collection trust and a man who, from what James overheard, owned a logistics company with deep military contracts.

The lighting dimmed gently, softening into warm gold. Overhead, the chandeliers twinkled like constellations suspended in time.

It felt surreal — like he was inside a portrait painted by money and heritage. Maybe he is. But James knew that he wasn’t here to stare and gawk. He was here to belong and to integrate into the elite society.

The light instrumental piece transitioned into a slightly jazzier tune, just as the first course was introduced — pan-seared scallops served on a bed of leek purée, paired with a French Chablis.

The sommelier stood near the head of the room, explaining the pairing — speaking about mineral tones and the ocean’s salt kissing the grapevines. It sounded pretentious and nonsensical, sure... but it was also polished.

James took a bite, nodding politely at the flavors, and slowly let the wine cut through the richness.

To his surprise, it really did complement it. He wasn’t a wine guy — at least not yet. But tonight was less about taste, but more about rhythm and timing.

He made sure to not keep silent and make himself invisible, but instead he spoke when appropriate, never too loud, never too passive.

He made one or two subtle remarks to the man beside him, who responded with a respectful chuckle. Every interaction to him was a step forward, and a beat in the rhythm of the elite.

The second course: duck confit atop a wild mushroom risotto, paired with a bold red Burgundy.

The flavors were rich, and balanced — much like the event itself, as no single guest dominated the room. Instead, influence moved through glances, nods, and soft toasts over clinking glass.

James leaned slightly to his left and exchanged a few words with the woman beside him — the same one that runs a private art collection trust.

It turned out to be that she’s the niece of a former ambassador and ran a high-end cultural nonprofit.

They spoke briefly about European art markets, and James, having read enough from passing, held his own. He tried his best.

The third course was more playful — a citrus-poached lobster tail with shaved fennel salad, paired with a vintage rosé that surprised everyone with its intensity.

This drew more conversation form everyone and the table slowly bloomed into motion, with laughter and introductions exchanged more freely.

By the fourth course — roasted lamb medallions with rosemary and wine reduction — James had fully settled into the event.

The wine pairings had done their work. His shoulders were now relaxed and his smile had become genuine, rather than the forced one that was starting to cause him stiffness in his face.

The tension from earlier, from seeing the woman at the wine bar — it hadn’t disappeared, but it had faded behind a layer of calm certainty.

Dessert came last — a lemon tart with burnt sugar crust, topped with gold leaf. Served with a subtle dessert wine that smelled like spring and age at once. It was delicious, and light, and elegant — and it was the perfect final punctuation to a refined, well curated evening.

James sat back, sipping the last of his wine slowly. He hadn’t spoken much, but he made sure he was noticed.

Because in these circles, being noticed without speaking too much was power. It meant you understood the rules. It meant people might invite you in again and maybe to even bigger places.

The event began to dissolve naturally, as guests stood from their chairs. Some drifted toward the wine bar again, while others found their little corners to reconnect in post-dinner clusters.

James was still adjusting his cuffs when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Let’s go," Elliot said.

James raised a brow.

"Where?"

"The corner." Elliot replied with a smirk.

James shrugged, stood up and followed him across the ballroom floor.

As they walked, he felt it something. It wasn’t the attention he was looking for, nor was it the admiration or curiosity.

Instead, it was filled with hostility. And he didn’t need to guess why.

Turning slightly, his eyes scanned a group near the large gilded mirror at the back. There, clustered like wolves in silk, were a small group of men and women.

Some young. Some old. But all of them had the same expression — masked smiles with teeth behind them.

Five women in particular stared at James like he’d spat on their family name. And he recognized two instantly.

The first was the woman Leslie slapped back on Rodeo Drive — her expression was just as venomous now as it was then.

Her hair was slicked back in a severe updo, her makeup flawless, but her glare looked like it could curdle blood.

Beside her stood the ’chihuahua’ — the heiress who had tried to bite his ego before the luncheon. It looks like she hadn’t forgotten and neither had James.

Then came the two young men. They looked familiar — like the type who’d been lurking quietly on social media.

What were they called again? Oh yes, gigolos.

Finally, there was the older man in the back. Distinguished. Likely a patriarch of one of the factions here. His gaze wasn’t loud, but it was piercing, as he was measuring him up.

James couldn’t help it, as a quiet chuckle escaped his throat at the thought of "chihuahuas and wounded pride."

He saw the twitch of fury on their faces when they heard his chuckle and their eyes narrowed.

One of the women straightened like she might walk over, but james didn’t even break stride. He didn’t have time to nurse their bruised egos and he couldn’t care less about it.

He and Elliot finally reached the far end of the ballroom — a quieter corner where another group was forming.

Unlike the old money cluster, this one wasn’t stiff. The posture here was relaxed. The tone was different — still polished, but warmer and less suffocating.

"James," Elliot said, pausing before the group. "Let me introduce you properly." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

There were five new people — three men and two women.

Elliot started with the man closest to them. "This is Amir. VC money. Heavy in medical diagnostics. Thinks four moves ahead."

Amir nodded and shook James’ hand.

"Welcome," he said simply.

"This is Elena," Elliot said, gesturing to a tall woman in a white pantsuit. "She runs a luxury logistics company. Has three jets but prefers trains."

"They’re more cinematic." Elena smirked.

The other introductions followed.

Chris — biotech, newly exited.

Harper — Hollywood finance, lowkey executive producer on six Oscar-nominated films.

And finally, Mei-Ling — Chinese tech heiress turned crypto enthusiast, whose smile could probably convince sharks to give up their teeth.

Each of them greeted James with curiosity but no arrogance could be seen in their eyes. No one asked him to prove himself but they definitely studied him.

The conversation that followed was sharp — ideas, jokes, dry laughs, and a few real insights slipped between glasses of dark wine and sparkling water.

By the time the group began to break apart an hour later, three of them had already invited him to low-key side events, and one had asked for his number.

It was already past midnight by the time they all started leaving and after greeting them one final time.