I took a deep breath and stepped inside Maison Étoile, the air cool and scented with something floral and expensive.
The attendants greeted me instantly, their smiles polished as they ushered me toward the reception table with a respect that felt almost theatrical.
My heart was pounding, the Lorvex Éclat Prime heavy on my wrist, but I kept my shoulders back, channeling the young master the system had drilled into me.
The receptionist, a woman in a sleek black uniform, looked up with a practiced smile. "Welcome, sir. Your name, please?" she asked, her tone crisp.
"Noah Theylenor," I said, assuming the system had made the reservation under my full name.
The effect was immediate—the receptionist froze, her eyes widening slightly, and the attendants around me stiffened, their deference tripling.
I blinked, puzzled. Had I said something wrong? "Is… everything okay?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
The receptionist recovered quickly, her smile now almost reverent. "Of course, Mr. Theylenor. Right this way to your private suite." Private suite? I hadn't expected that, but I nodded, trying to look like I belonged.
The attendants moved in sync, guiding me through the restaurant's opulent interior—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, tables draped in white linen.
I felt every eye in the hall, or at least I imagined I did, my minimalist white polo and black pants suddenly feeling like a spotlight. The system had promised to cover the bill, but this level of luxury was overwhelming.
"Stay calm, Noah," I muttered under my breath, mimicking the system's composed tone.
The attendants didn't seem to notice, their focus entirely on me, as if I were someone important.
Not far from the private suite, at the reception table, a young man stood, his frustration evident but restrained. A young man, ran a hand through his dark hair, his tailored jacket creasing slightly as he leaned toward the receptionist.
"You're telling me my reservation for the private suite was canceled?" he said, his voice tight but not angry. "I booked it weeks ago."
The receptionist, flustered, tapped at her screen. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Brooks. There was a scheduling error. We can offer a table in the main dining area, or a significant discount on your next visit."
The young man sighed, his jaw clenching. "The main area? That's not the same. My guests expect privacy."
Behind him, four other young men, all around 24, stood in a loose semicircle, their designer clothes. They exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed.
The tallest, crossed his arms, muttering, "This is why I stick to my own spots."
The most with average body shape, checked his phone, barely hiding his irritation.
The receptionist tried again, her voice apologetic. "We can also comp your drinks tonight, or—"
The young man cut her off with a raised hand. "Forget it. Just get us a table somewhere."
His tone was firm, but he wasn't yelling; he was too polished for that. His friends shifted, their impatience growing. Then, the stockiest of the group, forced a grin.
"Come on, Michael, let's just eat. I'm starving."
The last young man among them, adjusted his cufflinks, saying nothing but looking bored.
The young man nodded, about to agree, when he caught sight of a young man in a white polo and black pants being ushered toward a private suite by four attendants. His eyes narrowed.
"That guy's alone," he said under his breath, an idea forming. "If he's got a suite to himself, maybe we can join him."
The receptionist hesitated, but the young man was already moving, his friends trailing behind, puzzled but willing to follow his lead.
His gaze locked on the young man—moving with a confidence that didn't quite match his simple outfit.
"He's got the suite," the young man murmured, quickening his pace.
"If he's by himself, there's room for us."
The other frowned, glancing at each others. "You sure about this, Michael?" the young man didn't answer, his mind set on salvaging the night.
The four young men followed, their designer shoes clicking on the marble floor. The young man led the way, determined to turn a canceled reservation into an opportunity, even if it meant crashing a stranger's dinner.
I barely noticed the group of young men at the reception table as the attendants guided me through Maison Étoile's gleaming interior. My focus was on not tripping over my own feet, keeping my posture perfect, my expression calm.
The system's evaluation was in full swing, and I couldn't afford a misstep. I caught a glimpse of them—five guys in flashy brands, one looking frustrated—but I turned my head away, letting the attendants lead me to the suite. No distractions, not tonight.
Halfway down the hall, a voice called out behind me. "Hey, excuse me!"
I froze, my heart skipping as I turned. It was the guy from the reception, the one who'd been arguing, now flanked by four others, all dressed like they'd stepped out of a Veylorian fashion ad.
They were about my age, 24 or so, their confidence practically radiating. The leader, with sharp features and a tailored jacket, gave me a friendly smile.
"You heading to a private suite?" he asked, his tone casual but curious.
I nodded, unsure where this was going. "Yeah, just… dining tonight,"
I said, keeping my voice steady, like the system taught me. The guy's smile widened, but I caught a flicker of calculation in his eyes.
Him extending a hand. I shook it, my grip firm, hoping I wasn't sweating. The other four watched, their expressions ranging from bored to intrigued, and I felt the weight of the system's gaze, like it was grading this interaction too.
The young man got to the point. "Look, we had a reservation mix-up, and our suite got canceled," he said, his voice smooth.
"You're alone in there, right? Mind if we join you? Plenty of room, and we're good company."
I blinked, my mind racing. My first instinct was panic—they wanted my suite? No way I could sell it; this was my evaluation, my shot at the system's reward. But then I realized he wasn't asking to take it, just to share.
"Uh, sure," I said, relieved inside. "No problem."
The system chimed in my head, its voice clear: ⟪Allowing them to join will enhance your evaluation. Demonstrate your skills in a social setting.⟫
I almost laughed—enhance? Now I had to play young master in front of five strangers?
"Great, thanks," the young man said, clapping my shoulder. "You're saving our night."
I nodded, forcing a smile, my nerves screaming. "Happy to help,"
I said, the words feeling foreign but right. The attendants, watching silently, seemed to approve, their faces neutral but attentive.
I gestured for them to follow, and the attendants seamlessly adjusted, ushering all six of us toward the suite. I kept my pace steady, my posture perfect, but my mind was a mess.
These guys looked rich second generation, connected, the kind of people who belonged here. Me? I was a fraud with a 60-million-CRD watch and a system whispering in my head.
"Don't screw this up, Noah Theylenor,"
I muttered under my breath, hoping the system was right about this being a good move.
The young man, striding beside the other, felt a mix of relief and curiosity as the attendants led them to the private suite.
The tallest of his group, leaned in, his voice low. "You know this guy?"
The young man shook his head, glancing at his back. "Nope. Just saw him heading to a suite alone and figured it was our shot."
"Hope he's not some weirdo. That watch, though—looks like serious CRD."
The young man nodded, his mind turning. He'd noticed the watch too, and that polished demeanor didn't quite match his simple outfit.
"He's got something going on," he thought, but he let it go. More pressing was their own rudeness—they hadn't even introduced themselves.
"We're being jerks," he muttered to. "Yeah, well, you're the one who dragged us over. Fix it."
The young man sighed, quickening his pace to catch up with Noah.
"Sorry about that, man," the young man said, falling into step beside me.
"Didn't mean to barge in without intros. I'm Michael Brooks, from Auremouth. I run a game company—early stuff, but it's growing."
He flashed a grin, hoping to smooth things over. I nodded, his expression calm but guarded.
"No worries," he said, his voice steady. Michael gestured to his friends, who caught up, their designer clothes catching the suite's soft lighting.
The one who went next, his height making him stand out. "Daniel Hughes," he said, offering a quick handshake. "I manage a car dealership company. High-end stuff, mostly imports."
He had a directness that matched his broad shoulders, but his smile was friendly enough.
The one with most average body type, followed with a curt nod. "Ethan Cole, beverage company." His tone was neutral, like Michael.
The most stockier and grinning wide, clapped my shoulder. "Lucas Bennett, real estate. Good to meet you, man. Thanks for this."
The last one of them, adjusted his cufflinks before speaking. "Adam Reed, jewelry company. Mostly custom pieces."
His voice was quiet but sharp, his eyes lingering on my watch. All four were looked around 24, like Michael, their confidence born of success and privilege.
They'd grown up in Auremouth's elite circles, their businesses small but thriving, their names known in Veyloria's upper crust. I wearing simple polo and lone presence intrigued them, a puzzle they couldn't quite place.
Michael watched the man closely, noting his composure. "This guy's not fazed," he thought, impressed but wary.
Their group was used to getting what they wanted, but the young man easy agreement threw them off.
"Hope you don't mind us crashing," Michael added, testing the waters. But I shook my head, showing polite smiles.
"Not at all. Plenty of room."
The attendants opened the suite's doors, revealing its opulence, and Michael exchanged a glance with his friends. This night was going to be interesting.
I stepped into the suite, the group behind me, and felt the system's presence like a weight.
"I'm Noah Theylenor," I said, keeping it simple, my voice steady despite the nerves churning inside.
The five young men nodded, their eyes sharp but not unfriendly, and I took my seat at the head of the table, hoping I could pull this off.
The private suite was a shock—a secluded room with a long, polished table, velvet chairs, and a view of Auremouth's glittering skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood there, trying not to gape, as an attendant pulled out a chair for me.
"Your server will be with you shortly, Mr. Theylenor," one said, bowing slightly before they all slipped out.
I sat, the watch glinting under the soft lighting, and whispered, "System, what did you do?"
No response, but I could feel the evaluation starting, every move I made under scrutiny.
I adjusted my posture, sitting straighter, my hands resting lightly on the table as the system had taught me. The menu in front of me was a leather-bound tome, the prices in five and six digits making my head spin.
A bottle of wine listed at 10 million CRD nearly made me choke, but I forced a calm smile, pretending I'd seen it all before. The system had gotten me this far; I had to trust it now.
But the attendants' reaction kept nagging at me—why had they acted like I was royalty?
I glanced around the suite, its elegance a far cry from the dorm's peeling paint. "You're in deep now, Noah Theylenor," I said to myself, half-laughing.
The system's silence felt like a test, like it was watching to see if I'd crack. I wouldn't. I'd trained for this, spent hours in the subspace perfecting every gesture.
Whatever Maison Étoile threw at me, I'd handle it—or at least fake it well enough to pass.