Arriving at a ritzy, glamorous hotel in his sleek town car, Cal couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as he gazed up at the towering edifice before him. It was his. Though he hadn't constructed it himself, of course, he had molded it into the epitome of elegance and luxury it had become. An old chateau, reborn under his meticulous guidance, it stood as a testament to his vision and ambition.

Stepping out of the car with the grace of a man accustomed to luxury, Cal beamed at the building, acknowledging the doormen and valets with charm-dripped greetings. They knew him by name, of course, and their deferential smiles only served to bolster his ego. As he made his way through the opulent lobby, he greeted bellhops and receptionists with practiced ease, his charisma radiating from every word and gesture. A flirtatious wink here, a playful quip there -- Cal Crawford effortlessly commanded the attention of all who crossed his path.

Stopping to exchange pleasantries with a cocktail waitress, Cal's smile widened as he basked in the adoration of those around him. His effortless charm was a weapon in his arsenal, honed to perfection through years of practice and refinement. But beneath the facade of affability lay a mind as sharp as a dagger, always calculating, always plotting his next move.

Arriving at his private suite, Cal wasted no time in shedding his day-clothes, exchanging them for the elegant lines of a tailored tuxedo. The gala would be starting soon, and he needed to be ready to greet his guests with the grace and poise befitting a man of his stature. As he dressed, his thoughts drifted to the event at hand -- a fundraiser hosted by his company, Circus Corporation, in support of some charitable cause or another. The specifics eluded him for the moment, but Marcus would fill him in later. For now, his focus was on ensuring that everything went off without a hitch.

Pulling out his phone, Cal found a text from Marcus, confirming that John had been disposed of without a trace. A pang of regret tugged at his chest, but he quickly pushed it aside. John had made this choice, not him, and Cal had no room for sentimentality. One misstep could unravel everything he had built, and he was not about to let that happen.

With a final glance in the mirror, Cal straightened his bow-tie and adjusted his cufflinks, his reflection a portrait of confidence and refinement. Below the ballroom, his best tech specialists were hard at work, laying the groundwork for their next move. Tonight's guest of honor, a billionaire -- and arms dealer, though only Cal knew -- with a dubious moral compass, was about the become the unwitting pawn in Cal's game of deception. Cal had gathered that this man -- Charles Vanderbuilt, that was his name -- would be participating in a transaction tomorrow, in which he would be handing off hundreds of illicit firearms to a rather feisty terrorist organization in Saudi Arabia. He'd already been paid. If all went according to plan tonight, Charles's phone would be pilfered and promptly brought to Cal's tech people, where they would use it to redirect the funds to the charity of the evening, in Charles's name of course. By the time Charles ever realized what had happened, it would be too late. He would demand to see the funds from the terrorists tomorrow, and they would not take too kindly to his insolence. Cal's carefully orchestrated plan would ensure that the consequences would be swift, and severe. 

Satisfied that everything was proceeding according to plan, Cal made his way to the ballroom, ready to play the role of the gracious host. As the guests began to arrive, he would be waiting with a smile and a handshake, and no-one would be any wiser of what went on below their feet.