The garden did not return to noise after PK left.
It returned to calculation.
The chessboard remained exactly as it was—white king fallen, black pieces frozen mid-defense. No one touched it. No one dared. It was as if moving a piece would be an admission that the game had truly ended.
Leonard Blackwood was the first to break composure internally, though his face remained stiff.
His fingers tightened around the crystal bottle of medicine water. Too tight.
Thirty crore.
He had won the bid—but lost the room.
He realized it too late. What he purchased was life, not leverage. The young man had never tried to compete in wealth. He had forced them to reveal theirs. Leonard's jaw clenched as a single thought repeated in his mind:
I paid the highest price and still walked away empty-handed.
Across the table, Hector Vane's eyes burned.
Unlike Leonard, Hector did not regret the money. He regretted the disrespect. In all his years, no junior—no matter how talented—had ever dismissed him so casually. PK's calm arrogance replayed in his mind, each word sharper than an insult.
Try to buy it from Silas.
Hector smiled thinly, already considering paths that did not involve consent. Influence. Pressure. Accidents.
But for the first time in decades, uncertainty crept in.
Because Silas Blackwell had not stopped PK.
And that bothered Hector far more than the loss.
Henry Law, meanwhile, sat in stillness.
He had not spoken since his apology.
Others mistook it for restraint. In truth, Henry was connecting threads. The twins. Eve. PK's tone—firm but never sharp—with him alone. The way PK had refused money, power, prestige.
Henry understood then.
PK was not collecting allies.
He was placing pillars.
And Henry Law had just been allowed to stand as one.
At the head of the garden, Silas Blackwell finally exhaled.
The smile he wore was not amusement—it was recognition.
For the first time in many years, someone had walked into Blackwell territory, shaken the balance of three ruling families, taken nothing tangible… and left owning the outcome.
Silas rose slowly, his cane tapping once against the stone floor.
"From today onward," he said calmly, voice carrying weight without volume, "any discussion involving that young man goes through me."
Leonard looked up sharply.
Hector's eyes narrowed.
Henry simply nodded.
Silas did not look at them. He looked at the empty path PK had taken.
You didn't ask for protection, Silas thought.
So I'll offer it—and see if you accept by ignoring it.
At the far edge of the garden, half-hidden behind carved stone pillars, Riya Blackwell stood silently.
She had not spoken once during the chaos.
Her fox-like eyes followed the direction PK had left, replaying every moment she had dismissed him. The casual way he stood before men who ruled cities. The fact that he had never once looked at her to impress, to challenge, or to seek acknowledgment.
For the first time, irritation gave way to curiosity.
Who are you… really?