Destiny's Game* Chapter 27: The Alvara Deception

Louis’ POV

A month had passed, and our plans were working. The leaks had shifted attention, the authorities were chasing ghosts, and our one faithful investor had proven their loyalty. Business was quiet again — on the surface.

But silence doesn’t last forever.

It never does.

I was finally heading ho, back to Gloria City.

Back to the place where it all started.

Not for peace.

Not for nostalgia.

For carnage — more than anything else.

The city had changed, but I knew its veins still ran red with familiar greed. Every deal, every promise, every handshake ca with a blade behind it. I’d built a kingdom from shadows; now I was coming back to remind them who ruled those shadows.

The foreign investors who betrayed us were all over the news — headlines, exposés, televised hearings.

Their empires were burning. Their faces, the new symbols of corruption.

And us?

We were being paraded as saints.

The public called us victims of corporate deceit. Wrongfully accused, unfairly targeted. The journalists begged for interviews; the officials made statents in our defense.

The netizens sought justice for us.

It was almost poetic — watching the world twist itself into a story I’d written.

"Louis," Michael called.

I turned to look at him, his voice slicing through the faint hum of the room.

"You have a eting in ten," he said.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The dark circles under my eyes probably said everything he already knew.

"I’ve barely slept," I muttered, voice low and tired.

Michael stood still for a mont, his usual composure flickering. "You’ve been running on fus for days," he said quietly. "If you keep this up, you’ll burn out before the dust settles."

I almost smiled — almost. "Burnout’s a luxury," I said, forcing myself to stand. My knees ached, the dull pain spreading upward like a reminder that even kings of the underworld were still made of flesh and bone.

He didn’t argue, just watched as I straightened my tie and slid my jacket over tired shoulders.

Fatigue had beco part of now — a constant companion, a punishnt I wore like armor. Maybe that’s what power really was: not strength, not glory, but the ability to stay awake while everyone else got to sleep.

"Let’s go," I said finally, voice low but steady. "They’re waiting."

Walking into the room, I could feel the stares peeling through my skin — heavy, dissecting, searching.

But was I bothered? No.

The room was full — shareholders seated on one side, political assistants whispering behind tablets, and a handful of journalists pretending not to eavesdrop. Everyone was watching, everyone waiting for to slip.

The air was thick with expectation — the kind that suffocates, the kind that turns silence into judgnt.

I adjusted my cufflinks slowly, deliberately, letting the weight of my presence settle over them like fog.

"Gentlen," I said, voice calm, steady — the kind that could slice through glass.

Instantly, whispers died.

Every move in that room was a ga — every breath, a negotiation. So wanted answers, others wanted blood.

But all of them wanted to see if Louis Alvara still had control.

Spoiler — I did.

"It is quite unfortunate that we had been wrongfully accused and villainized by the dia," I said, letting a small, tired smile tug at my lips.

I had to sound honest — not desperate, not defensive. Just tired. Tired of lies, tired of corruption, tired of being the misunderstood saint in a den of wolves.

Across the table, I caught a few exchanged glances — the kind that reeked of guilt.

Of course, so of them knew. So of them were part of the very rot they now pretended to condemn.

"Transparency," I continued, folding my hands neatly on the table, "has always been our principle. Even when the world doubted us, we stayed true to our purpose — to serve, to build, to restore faith in what this company stands for."

There was a ripple of polite nods. The journalists typed faster, hungry for soundbites. The politicians nodded like they believed it.

Good. Let them.

Because every word I spoke, every carefully placed pause, was a lie wrapped in truth. And every single one of them knew it — yet none dared to call out.

"Thankfully, the truth is slowly coming forward — and corrupt organizations made it happen," I said, my tone calm, steady, almost gracious.

Michael stood beside , nodding earnestly, playing his role like he’d been born for it.

The room humd with forced approval — a few nods from shareholders, a low murmur from the journalists. No one dared interrupt, though I could feel their unease. They didn’t know whether to applaud or to fear .

I glanced briefly at the caras, the flashes bright against my tired eyes. "We forgive those who wronged us," I continued softly, "because vengeance achieves nothing but more chaos. What matters now is restoration — rebuilding trust, rebuilding stability."

A perfect line — one that would air beautifully on the evening news.

But beneath the table, my fingers tapped once against my knee — a quiet signal to Michael.

He knew what it ant.

Restoration wasn’t peace.

Restoration was control.

"It is absolutely horrible that within our society, illegal drugs are distributed, causing risks and harm," I said, my voice steady, asured — the kind of tone that made people believe. "But my company will do everything in its power to limit this illegal activity."

I almost laughed at the hypocrisy of it.

Because I ant every word — just not in the way they thought.

Yes, my companions had their hands deep in this business. Yes, I’d benefited from the sa trade I was now condemning. But our competitors... they had done far worse. They profited more from our alleged downfall, built their empires on our suffering, and then smiled for the caras like saints.

I wasn’t pretending to be righteous; I was reclaiming the narrative.

If the world wanted a hero, I would give them one — even if my hands were still stained red beneath the cuffs of my suit.

The room went quiet for a mont after I spoke.

Dozens of faces stared back at — so curious, so skeptical, others pretending to be convinced. The hum of the air conditioning was the only sound, low and steady, like a heartbeat beneath the silence.

A journalist in a navy suit raised her hand. Her badge read Elhurst Daily. Brave. Or foolish.

"Mr. Alvara," she began, her voice clear but cautious, "so sources claim that a few of your supply lines were connected to the seized shipnts last month. Would you care to comnt?"

Michael’s eyes flicked toward , a silent warning.

I smiled. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Ah, yes," I said. "The rumors. A side effect of living in a world where anyone with a microphone becos a judge."

A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. I leaned forward slightly, resting my hands on the table.

"Every large organization faces false accusations. Especially when competitors want a convenient headline. We’ve cooperated with every investigation, and as you can see—" I gestured toward the projection screen behind , displaying clean figures, green arrows, and neatly forged reports "—we’ve been cleared of any involvent."

The journalist hesitated, pen hovering. "And if future investigations suggest otherwise?"

I let the pause hang, long enough for the silence to taste heavy.

"Then," I said, smiling faintly, "I’ll be the first to demand justice."

A few people chuckled — the polite, uncertain kind of laughter that cos from fear more than amusent.

The tension cracked slightly. A shareholder clapped once, then twice, before the room followed.

Michael leaned close, murmuring just loud enough for to hear, "You’re terrifying when you smile like that."

"I know," I whispered back, straightening my tie as the applause grew louder. "That’s why it works."

I ended my speech thanking them all — a few well-placed smiles, a few firm handshakes. Caras flashed, questions flew, and I answered them all with that sa calm tone I’d practiced for years.

By the ti I returned to my hotel suite, my throat was dry and my head ached.

Exhaustion. Relief.

A dangerous mix, but I welcod it.

Michael was already inside, slumped on the couch with his tie undone, a grin stretching across his face. "You did it," he said, laughter in his voice. "You actually pulled it off."

Bill, ever the quiet one, was at the minibar. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and turned on the TV.

The first thing I heard was my own voice echoing through the speakers — calm, confident, perfectly composed.

"It is absolutely horrible that within our society, illegal drugs are distributed causing risks and harm..."

The news anchors spoke over the clip, their tones reverent.

"Louis Alvara, the young head of Alvara Industries, has addressed recent allegations with grace and determination," one said. "Public response has been overwhelmingly positive, with citizens demanding justice for the wrongful accusations."

Michael let out a low whistle. "They’re eating it up."

Bill smirked, glass in hand. "To the saint who washed away his sins with words."

I didn’t answer.

On the screen, the video zood in — my face under the bright lights of the conference, expression unreadable, eyes cold beneath the charm.

The "face of innocence."

That’s what the caption said.

I looked away, loosening my tie, voice low. "They see what I want them to see."

Bill raised his glass. "And what’s that?"

I t his gaze through the reflection in the window.

"The man who never loses."