A Wall Street Genius's Final Investment Playbook

Chapter 302 : Side Story, The Marquis (8)

Desmond couldn’t believe his eyes.The president’s family—three of them, no less—had appeared at the event.

It was something he had never imagined, and for a moment, his mind went blank.

Naturally, Gerard hadn’t given him any prior warning, nor had any of his surveillance networks picked up on such news.

He’d been completely blindsided.

A bad feeling ran through him, but Desmond quickly shook his head as if to calm himself.

With only a few weeks left until inauguration, President-elect Trenton would be far too busy forming his cabinet and managing the transition.

Besides, as long as the current president was still performing his duties, it was customary for the president-elect not to appear at public events.

This prevented confusion caused by two leaders sending overlapping messages and also served as a gesture of political respect toward the sitting administration.

No matter how he looked at it, Trenton wouldn’t be here personally.

However...

During such a sensitive period, the president-elect’s family members usually refrained from any public appearances.

If the spouse or children of a president-elect were seen in official settings or meeting with others, every action could be interpreted as a political signal revealing the direction of the incoming administration.

And yet—

Here they were, three members of the president’s family, breaking that iron rule.

Of course, this also demonstrated how deeply connected the Marquis family was with the next government—an objectively good sign.

It was proof of the Marquis family’s immense influence.

But...

From Desmond’s perspective, it was hardly something to celebrate.

Because the one who had orchestrated all of this was none other than Gerard.

That realization snapped Desmond fully awake.

If things continued smoothly, tonight’s gala would go down as the greatest success in Marquis family history—and Gerard’s position as heir would become unshakable.

He had to turn the situation around somehow.

He couldn’t very well throw the president’s family out, nor could he deliberately ruin the event while they were present.

That left only one option.

In other words, steal the spotlight—make himself the protagonist of this successful gala instead of Gerard.

Some of the key guests had already been told that Gerard was the host, but that could still be overturned.

Whoever personally greets and attends to the highest-ranking guests is naturally regarded as the host.

If he welcomed the president’s family himself, everyone would associate the gala’s success with Desmond.

But just as he was about to move—

“It’s such an honor that you made time for us despite your busy schedule!”

Someone beat him to it.

It was his brother—Gerard’s great-uncle, Rupert.

Whoever takes charge of protocol seizes control of the event.

Rupert must have realized that too and rushed ahead.

“It’s a great honor to have the First Lady here with us. Your presence makes tonight’s event shine even brighter.”

Rupert puffed out his chest, greeting her with an air of self-importance as if he were the host.

However, the response he received was not what he expected.

“Oh, Mr. Rupert, you’re here too! I’m so glad you remember me—and you look so healthy, what a relief.”

The First Lady’s tone was gentle, yet her speech was oddly deliberate, each word carefully separated—and far too slow.

It sounded as though she were speaking to a small child who might not fully understand her words.

Desmond barely contained his laughter.

Of course.

The Trentons thought Rupert was suffering from mid-stage dementia.

During the election, Rupert had foolishly supported Trenton’s rival, Clayton.

At the time, it had seemed like a reasonable move, since Clayton was widely expected to win.

But once Trenton was elected, Rupert’s previous stance only made Gerard’s consistent support for Trenton look suspiciously inconsistent.

To cover up that blunder, Rupert had offered a feeble excuse:

—My memory’s been a bit hazy lately... there must’ve been some mistake.

But forgetting about a multimillion-dollar political donation wasn’t mere forgetfulness—it was a symptom.

Because of that excuse, the Trentons had since treated Rupert as a dementia patient.

“Ah, yes! I’m perfectly fine now. I take my medicine regularly, and my memory’s almost back to what it was in my twenties!”

His voice carried a desperate attempt to assert his sanity.

The First Lady, however, maintained her tone.

“That’s wonderful to hear. Please remember to take your medicine every day. Don’t overexert yourself, alright?”

Her words were still full of kind condescension, as though comforting a child.

No matter what Rupert said, her perception wouldn’t change.

“Ah, no, really, I’m fine now...”

Rupert tried again to defend himself, but the First Lady had already mentally categorized him as a patient.

Desmond chuckled softly and stepped forward.

Turning toward Gerard, who had just approached, he said,

“This is my nephew, Gerard, and his sister, Rachel. I’m sure you already know them well.”

Then he smoothly continued,

“I’ve let Gerard handle most of our communications so far. If there were any shortcomings during the process, I take full responsibility. I hope you’ll understand.”

Of course, none of that was true.

Everything—supporting Trenton, coordinating with his camp, and maintaining relations—had been Gerard’s doing.

But with just that one statement, Desmond had reframed the entire narrative: all of Gerard’s accomplishments were now under his direction and supervision.

The First Lady nodded politely.

“I see. Thank you for the invitation. It’s an honor to take part in such a meaningful event.”

“The honor is all ours.”

Just like that, Desmond successfully seized control of the protocol.

A satisfied smile spread across his lips.

After all, Gerard had handled all the groundwork.

He probably never imagined that his achievements would be stolen so quickly and effortlessly.

Surely he was about to protest.

But Desmond was ready for that.

‘I only left you in charge of communication,’ he planned to say. ‘When did you start thinking the presidential protocol was part of your duties?’

However—

To his surprise, Gerard’s reaction was completely unexpected.

“Then I’ll leave things to you, Uncle. I’ll step back now.”

Without hesitation, he handed over the protocol.

Calm, composed, utterly unbothered.

A chill ran down Desmond’s spine.

But there was no time to think any deeper.

The First Lady was standing right beside him, quietly waiting.

“Then, shall we move?”

Because of what he had just said, Desmond was now unavoidably in charge of the protocol.

If he hesitated or appeared unsure, he’d no longer look like the man who had planned and organized the entire event himself.

So Desmond decided to act immediately and smooth over the awkwardness.

The first part of the event was the networking cocktail party.

As the one in charge of guiding, Desmond had to escort the First Lady and her entourage around the hall, introducing them one by one to the key figures of the evening.

However—

The moment he found himself in that position, Desmond’s mind went completely blank.

Truth be told, he had no idea who was even attending tonight.

After all, his original plan had been to sabotage the gala that Gerard organized, so he hadn’t bothered to learn the guest list.

And since he hadn’t expected the First Lady’s family to attend at all, he had no clue who she should meet first, in what order, or what kind of conversation topics would be appropriate.

But he couldn’t simply wander aimlessly through the venue with the First Lady in tow.

In moments like this, instinct always takes over.

He went with the most natural, comfortable choice—someone familiar to him.

“This is Gregory Stone. I believe you’ve already met a few times before.”

The first person he introduced was the chairman of the prestigious social club he belonged to—a successor to a powerful family that had built a steel empire over generations.

By Desmond’s standards, Gregory was perfect in every way: refined, well-connected, and accomplished.

But the First Lady smiled politely, exchanged a few courteous words, and then said something that made Desmond’s stomach drop.

“Of course, I know Mr. Stone. But rather than meeting people from these ‘cartels,’ I’d like to speak with those more directly involved in today’s event.”

“...!”

Her tone was pleasant and gentle, but the message was unmistakable.

She wasn’t impressed.

The word cartel, tossed out so casually, said everything.

In that instant, Desmond remembered Trenton’s relentless campaign speeches.

—Washington? It’s a cartel party! They sip cocktails, trade favors, and fundraise among themselves—all while claiming to care about the nation!

—This time, it’s our turn. The turn of the real people who rose from the ground up!

Throughout the campaign, Trenton had attacked the establishment by branding them as “cartels,” presenting himself as the self-made champion of ordinary citizens.

And yet here was Desmond, opening the evening by proudly presenting a textbook elite.

And worse—doing it in the middle of a cocktail party.

To the First Lady, his choice must have seemed hopelessly tone-deaf.

The people she truly wanted to meet were the guests from the other side of society.

She smiled again and added,

“I heard that small business owners were also invited tonight—people in real estate and interior design, for example. I was delighted to hear that. After all, my husband started in the very same place.”

She wanted to meet the working-class attendees—the ones often treated as outsiders.

She wanted to stand beside them, to show the world: We’re not so different from you.

But there was one huge problem.

Desmond finally realized what a fatal mistake he had made by pushing Gerard out of the protocol.

He knew nothing—absolutely nothing—about the “ordinary” guests in attendance.

He had bribed one of Rachel’s staff members to obtain the guest list, but had only skimmed through it briefly.

He hadn’t even bothered to memorize their names, faces, or professions.

Why would he?

It was a party he had intended to ruin—why waste time learning the names of commoners?

He had wandered around the venue for nearly an hour before the First Lady arrived, yet hadn’t exchanged a single meaningful word with any of the common guests.

Now, in this unprecedented crisis, Desmond realized he had to say something—anything.

“There are indeed many fascinating people here tonight. For example, this gentleman right here...”

He quickly grabbed the nearest person who looked ordinary enough.

A man wearing a cheap rental tuxedo—he radiated “working class.”

Desmond didn’t know what kind of business he was in, but assumed he could improvise something about supporting small entrepreneurs through the Marquis Foundation.

That was the plan—

But the man tilted his head awkwardly.

“Uh... excuse me, I’m an artist.”

“An artist?”

Rachel’s list did include a few artists, and by sheer bad luck, Desmond had picked one.

For a moment, his expression froze, but he forced out a laugh.

“Ah, my apologies! I thought you were someone I’d already met. I’m terrible with faces, you see.”

He quickly moved on, trying again with someone else.

But—

“Sorry, I’m actually a translator. I’m here accompanying a guest.”

“I’m... the event manager here, sir.”

Desmond’s “guest-identifying skills” were abysmal.

He had somehow managed to single out only staff members—none of them actual invitees.

At first, it could be brushed off as a small mistake.

But as it happened repeatedly, his excuses grew weaker and weaker.

“I never used to make these kinds of mistakes... I suppose I really am getting old.”

The First Lady’s expression slowly shifted—from polite patience to clear disappointment.

The protocol Desmond displayed was nothing but clumsy and uninformed.

And in that painful moment, the truth hit him.

Handling a presidential family’s protocol isn’t something you can do on the spot.

Welcoming top-level dignitaries means that every moment they see must be perfectly orchestrated.

Each guest becomes an actor on a stage, each greeting a carefully crafted political message.

That’s what true high-level hosting demands—weeks, even months of preparation.

Gerard, who had known in advance about the Trenton family’s attendance, had surely done all that groundwork.

Desmond, on the other hand, had been thrown into the spotlight blind.

The Marquis family’s dignity was gone, replaced by the fumbling of an unprepared amateur.

If things continued this way, his reputation would suffer irreparable damage.

There was only one move left.

“Gerard, Rachel... I think it would be best if you two handled the introductions.”