The Reporter
For most people, attending an awards ceremony is a matter of great honor, but in Miss Stark's eyes, it was simply boring. Compared to the Department of Defense's Contribution Award Gala, she was far more interested in the casino downstairs.
At least in the casino, she could relax and enjoy herself—it almost felt like home. Of course, that feeling of ease was largely due to the fact that she was incredibly wealthy.
As the largest city in Nevada, Las Vegas was one of the world's four major gambling hubs, a city as bustling as New York. However, while New York's prosperity exuded the atmosphere of daily life, you could always find a moment of tranquility in the midst of its bustle. In contrast, Las Vegas was a non-stop, massive party where the entire city's inhabitants were participants in the celebration.
Centered around its gambling economy, Las Vegas grew larger, more prosperous, and more extravagant, ultimately evolving into the Entertainment Capital of the West Coast.
The city's streets were a kaleidoscope of neon lights, and everywhere people were losing themselves in the intoxicating atmosphere of revelry.
Las Vegas was like a double-edged coin: one side hell, one side paradise. Both extremes coexisted, inseparable and ever-present.
The Department of Defense's Best Contribution Award Ceremony ended at midnight, and Colonel Rhodes found Miss Stark in the hotel's casino.
"Oh, crap, he spotted me."
Seeing her scowling friend, the dark-skinned colonel approaching her with frustration etched on his face, Miss Stark blinked innocently. She awkwardly raised her champagne glass and took a sip of her Champs-Élysées cocktail, sticking her tongue out slightly.
"Natasha, they called your name at the ceremony, and you weren't there. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?"
Clearly, Colonel Rhodes was upset that she had stood him up. In an attempt to avoid his scolding, Miss Stark decided to feign drunkenness, instantly adopting the demeanor of someone thoroughly intoxicated.
"Rhodey, you wouldn't believe how much I won today. I started with a million as my stake, and I've made thirteen million dollars—ha ha ha ha ha!"
As she turned toward Rhodes, she deliberately slipped, collapsing onto him, and the glass of champagne she had been holding spilled onto his military uniform, staining it with bright red liquid. Rhodes' expression became a complicated mix of emotions.
At the gambling table, the other players—who had just watched Miss Stark skillfully win thirteen million dollars from them—were now seeing her act as though she was drunkenly out of control. Their faces twitched in disbelief, but they didn't know what to say.
It was clear that this woman had the skills of a seasoned actress, and seeing Miss Stark's bodyguards approach, they realized they were outmatched. Grudgingly, they left the table, heading to the next one in hopes of recouping their losses.
Miss Stark wasn't actually drunk; she was merely trying to slip past Rhodes by pretending to be. And, having known him for years, she knew that even if Rhodes could see through her act, he likely wouldn't call her out on it. Both would take a step back and avoid confrontation.
Colonel Rhodes, looking down at the woman clinging to him like an octopus and the damp spot on his uniform where the cocktail had soaked in, could only sigh. His already dark face seemed to darken even more with exasperation. Did this woman really have no sense of shame?
Of course, she did.
Colonel Rhodes knew her better than anyone else, especially when it came to her antics after a drink. In his heart, he was sure that she had already concluded he wouldn't scold her, which is why she chose this playful method to get away.
"She's drunk. Take her back to her room, and don't forget to remind her about tomorrow's schedule. I'm heading back."
With that, Colonel Rhodes peeled her body—heavy with the scent of alcohol and perfume—off him and handed her over to her head bodyguard, Happy Hogan.
"Got it, Colonel. I'll take care of it."
Happy couldn't help but shake his head at his boss's shenanigans. Ever since Miss Stark had mentioned wanting to visit the casino, he had been by her side, keeping a close eye on her. He knew perfectly well whether or not she was truly drunk.
However, as a bodyguard with a strong sense of professionalism, he wouldn't expose his boss's little act. Instead, he quietly instructed the others to collect the chips Miss Stark had won and cash them in, transferring the funds into her personal account.
"Ma'am, the Colonel has left."
The unspoken message was clear: you can drop the Oscar-worthy performance now—nobody's buying it.
"How dull—let's go home."
Straightening up, Miss Stark wore a disinterested expression, completely unbothered by what others thought. She headed toward the casino exit without a second glance.
"Bring the car around."
Seeing Miss Stark walk off, Happy quickly caught up to her, not forgetting to instruct one of the other bodyguards to retrieve the car from the hotel garage. After all, where the boss went, they had to follow.
Despite her earlier drinking, Miss Stark hadn't had much alcohol, and the cocktail she had was relatively low in alcohol content. With a cool breeze blowing, most of her buzz had worn off. A few minutes later, a long, black stretch Lincoln limousine pulled up beside her.
As a loyal bodyguard, Happy opened the car door for her, but Miss Stark merely smiled, patting his chubby face with the back of her hand before getting into the car.
Just as she was about to step in, a woman in a casual business suit came running toward them. With every step, her chest bounced, and the press pass around her neck swung back and forth until Miss Stark's bodyguards stopped her.
"Miss Stark—sorry to bother you, Miss Stark, could you spare a moment for an interview?"
"She's quite the looker—Vanity Fair reporter," Happy whispered into Miss Stark's ear as he took in the blonde journalist's appearance.
Miss Stark raised an eyebrow and shot Happy an appreciative glance, clearly pleased with his remark. She then slowly stepped out of the car.
"You want to interview me? Sure, go ahead. You are?"
Looking the young woman up and down, Miss Stark noted that she was about the same height, had a great figure, blonde hair, blue eyes, and attractive features—quite her type. A smile spread across Miss Stark's face as her interest piqued.
"Hello, I'm Christine, from Vanity Fair."
"I heard you attended the Department of Defense's awards ceremony today and received the Peacekeeper Award. But I'd like to know—don't you think it's ironic that a weapons dealer receives a Peacekeeper award, given that weapons bring nothing but slaughter?"
"Additionally, internationally, your reputation isn't great either. Some have even given you the nickname 'The Angel of Death,' a weapons dealer spreading destruction. Do you consider that a slander against your image?"
The young reporter stood firm, notebook in hand, her words filled with the sharp, idealistic edge often directed at those who profit from war. Miss Stark's smile faltered slightly, her brow furrowing.
"Christine, you need to understand—human history is essentially an encyclopedia of war. Humanity constantly debates war as its central theme, but I know one thing for sure: peace is a luxury, and the price you must pay for it is beyond anything you can imagine."
She shook her head slightly, looking at the reporter with a hint of irritation. This woman had suddenly appeared out of nowhere with an aggressive, idealistic tone. Miss Stark wasn't quite sure what she was trying to accomplish.
"You should be grateful, Christine. You were born in a powerful country, a country that has the strength to ensure the safety of its citizens. But what's the foundation of that safety? Weapons and military power, isn't it?"
"That said, when the world no longer needs war, I'd much rather focus on education or healthcare, maybe even energy. Sure, selling weapons brings me hundreds of times the profit, but that's not really my goal."
That was genuinely how Miss Stark felt. And when the weapons trade no longer provided her with sufficient returns, she planned to abandon the market altogether.
Her true interest lay in industries with more potential—whether in healthcare or energy—fields where she could use her advanced technology to spur industrial growth and generate steady streams of capital.
"Alright, the interview ends here. I need to rest."
Initially, Miss Stark had entertained thoughts of seducing the reporter, but after their conversation, those impulses quickly dissipated. She enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but she wasn't so desperate as to pursue someone with such a conflicted soul. Her sense of mental purity made her reluctant to engage further with this person.
The convoy slowly departed, driving along Las Vegas's main thoroughfare toward Stark Industries' regional office, leaving behind the reporter, who hadn't gotten the answers she sought, standing silently in the cool night air outside the hotel.
"Good morning, ma'am. Your clothes have been pressed and returned."
The next morning at her Malibu villa, Miss Stark was awakened by her personal assistant, Pepper. Today, Pepper wore a white suit with gold stripes, exuding an air of feminine elegance.
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