Chapter 12 Just A Discarded Pawn

• A waitress, radiating refinement in her elegant gown, led Benjamin and his group to the entrance of a private room on the first floor of the club.
• Benjamin cast a glance at the waitress, a passing thought crossing his mind. Even the waitresses here are dazzling beauties, like those seen on university campuses. Virtue Gardens is indeed exceptional.
• Sterling followed closely behind, chuckling. “If Mr. Zabel is interested, I can arrange for you to have a chat with her later.”
• Benjamin shook his head and sighed. He totally misunderstood me.
• With a quick push, Sterling opened the door to the private room, shedding his sleazy demeanor and adopting a respectful tone. “Mr. Tristan.”
• Inside, a middle-aged man sat comfortably on an expensive wooden chair. He wore a traditional black suit, exuding a sense of calm and steadiness. The aura surrounding him suggested long-held authority, paired with a vibrant, commanding energy. His sharp brows framed piercing black eyes, alive with intelligence.
• Beside him stood a man as rigid as a spear, likely in his early thirties. His short black hair complemented his sharp and unyielding demeanor as if he were a sword freshly drawn from its sheath. There was no mistaking the martial prowess radiating from him, a force honed through rigorous discipline.
• Benjamin sized him up silently. He might have more spiritual energy within him, but its quality is inferior to mine. Even if his energy were ten times stronger, I could still take ten of him down.
• The middle-aged man seated on the chair had to be Tristan. He was younger than Benjamin had anticipated, probably around forty-five or forty-six, and appeared more composed and sharp than expected.
• “So, you're the Benjamin who injured my men, huh?” Tristan lifted his head, fixing a dispassionate gaze on Benjamin. It was as if his eyes were attempting to pierce through Benjamin's very soul.
• Benjamin nodded, a blend of humility and quiet confidence in his demeanor. “Yes, that's me. And you must be the infamous Mr. Tristan?”
• Tristan studied Benjamin's appearance, finding nothing remarkable about him. His fair complexion and calm demeanor gave off the air of a scholar, not someone with the strength Sterling had described. A flicker of disappointment crossed his eyes. This man seems far from the formidable expert I've expected.
• Beside Tristan, the short-haired man, rigid as a drawn spear, exhaled sharply. His gaze was sharp with hostility. “Kid, do you know who you're talking to?”
• “Don't speak to our guest like that,” Tristan reprimanded with a frown before turning back to Benjamin, his expression softening. “Come, young man. Please, have a seat.”
• Benjamin lowered himself onto the couch, his gaze unwavering. “Why did you want to see me?”
• “I've heard you're quite skilled since you even managed to injure two of my men,” Tristan said with a confident smile. “What I need most are capable people like you. Stay by my side, and I promise you a future filled with opportunities.”
• Benjamin's eyes flickered with understanding. I see. The man intends to recruit me. He expects me, an Immortal, to serve an ordinary underground boss like him?
• “That's not in my plan,” Benjamin declined the offer calmly, his expression unchanging.
• For a brief moment, Tristan's face stiffened, and a frown appeared on his forehead. Even his subordinates exchanged startled glances.
• No one had ever refused Tristan's offer so directly before.
• “Fine,” Tristan said slowly, exhaling as if suppressing his irritation. “You young folks always seem ambitious and proud. Come find me once you've given it more thought.”
• “But this is the guy who injured Mr. Sterling...” the stern-looking underling muttered, brows furrowed.
• Tristan waved a hand dismissively.
• Just as Benjamin began to rise from his seat, a familiar voice drifted from the adjacent booth. “Mr. Whitman, I really can't drink anymore. How about we have another round some other time?”
• The lively sounds of clinking glasses and cheerful chatter carried from next door. Inside, a group of seven or eight men and women were engaged in animated conversation, toasting each other with laughter. Among them was a woman with long, flowing hair cascading over her shoulders. Her oval-shaped face was delicately made up, emphasizing her natural beauty. Dressed in a simple yet elegant gown that highlighted her graceful figure, she radiated charm, captivating everyone around her.
• A portly middle-aged man stood beside Serena, raising a glass of wine. “Ms. Yates, your company and ours have been business partners for some time now. If you don't drink this glass, I'll take it as a sign of disrespect.”
• The woman with long hair and a delicate oval face, radiating charm and grace, was none other than Benjamin's wife, Serena, the CEO of Grace Cosmetics. At that moment, her cheeks were slightly flushed, indicating she had already consumed a fair amount of alcohol.
• Walter Whitman was a key supplier who consistently provided raw materials to Grace Cosmetics, making him essential to the firm's operations. Just as Serena found herself in a difficult position, the door to the private room was abruptly pushed open.
• The others turned to see who had entered. An ordinary-looking young man with somewhat fair skin stepped inside.
• “You're a grown man. Why make things difficult for a woman? I'll drink on her behalf,” Benjamin remarked, his brow furrowed as he looked at Serena.
• “Who the hell are you?” a tipsy Walter sneered. “What makes you think you're qualified to drink on behalf of Ms. Yates?”
• “Oh, wait. Isn't he Ms. Yates' husband, that good-for-nothing from the Zabel family?” someone called out, followed by a chorus of laughter.
• In the business world of Junbert, many were aware of Serena's circumstances. They knew she had been pressured into marrying someone from the Zabel family. Who would have imagined that the man she married was merely a discarded pawn, existing solely to ensure the continuation of the Zabel family lineage?