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Henry knew those names—not because he had nothing better to do than research who America's truly wealthy were, preparing to show up at their doors in a mask to scrounge for favors if he ever went hungry.

No, it was from accompanying Audrey Hepburn at a UNICEF fundraising gala in New York. In such charity circles, it was unavoidable to learn the names of the great philanthropists who gave generously.

Some names weren't even on the official guest list, but because of their renown in philanthropy, there was always the chance they might arrive uninvited. So the PR company's prep notes always included them.

Henry, for his part, had made sure to display just the right amount of his "super-assistant" skills—drawing on the lessons Old Tom had once shared during their time in Alaska. In America, there were countless perfectly legal and convenient avenues to get things done… provided you knew them.

This travel arrangement, for example, was simple: just knowing the United Airlines counter number at LAX to reserve tickets ahead of time, and calling the rental car company at Washington Dulles to pre-book a car with their arrival time noted.

Two easy phone calls, and their journey smoothed out completely—no queuing at counters, no waiting around for vehicles to be shuffled.

Givenchy, of course, had contacted their hosts beforehand and mentioned their approximate arrival. Naturally, the invitation to dinner followed.

That alone said a lot: when you could casually drop by the home of one of America's "invisible billionaires" and be received as an honored guest, your stature was no ordinary thing. Even Audrey Hepburn herself might not have enjoyed that privilege.

Still, Givenchy hadn't come empty-handed. He picked up a bottle of Louis XIII cognac at the airport—a French spirit costing thousands. Compared to a fine bottle one could buy for a few dozen dollars, this extravagant liquor was staggering to Henry. A Kryptonian who had once worked on a crab boat thought grimly: An entire season's work wouldn't buy many bottles of this stuff.

As planned, Henry drove them to Oak Spring Farm before nightfall.

It wasn't at all the kind of estate he had imagined—no guards posted every few steps, no fortress-like presence. Just a farmhouse with history in its bones, and a sense of understated dignity.

Its style wasn't the flashy modern "minimalist" trend that claimed to be design but often resulted in bizarre, impractical spaces.

Thinking about it, Henry realized his stereotype of Western mansions came from movies—those South American drug lords, surrounded by armed guards and high walls. That was their trade. These people, however, dealt in legitimate businesses. They had security and discreet cameras, yes, but no need for constant, gun-toting vigilance.

Paul and Rachel Mellon themselves stood at the front door to welcome their guests. As the car rolled to a stop, the Mellons' attendants opened the door for Givenchy, the fashion world's grand figure.

Henry, however, looked around uncertainly. Where was he supposed to park? When one of the staff approached his side of the car, he asked politely, "Excuse me, where should I leave the car?"

"Sir, just leave it to us. You needn't trouble yourself."

"Ah, well… I'm just an assistant. There's no need to go to such lengths," Henry replied awkwardly. He wasn't familiar with the etiquette in homes like this. Fundraising galas were one thing, but the customs of visiting someone's private residence were another matter entirely.

The attendant, however, remained courteous. "Once inside, everyone is a guest. Please don't worry." And since Henry was at the wheel, not in the passenger seat, there was no attempt to open his door for him.

Feeling very much like a bumpkin, Henry climbed out nervously and handed the keys over.

Yet in that brief moment, he noticed something unusual: the attendant bore scales on his forearms and the backs of his hands. A mutant. His exact abilities were unclear, but clearly, even the Mellons' household staff included such people.

Meanwhile, at the entrance, Givenchy exchanged pleasantries with the couple. Turning back, he called, "Henry, come here. I'll introduce you." Updates are released by novelFɪre.net

When Henry stepped forward, Givenchy said, "This is Mr. Paul Mellon, and this is Mrs. Rachel Lambert Mellon."

The old-money couple carried their aristocratic presence with ease—no awkwardness, no neglect of personal care. Compared to Europe's nobility, they lacked only the titles. But in terms of comfort and privilege, they matched or surpassed.

Unlike the arrogance of someone like Tony Stark, there was no haughtiness in them—only genuine kindness. To live this long, in such stability and security, one might not be a saint, but one was certainly shrewd.

"Good day, sir, madam. I am Henry Brown, assistant to Miss Audrey Hepburn."

Henry made no move to offer a card or extend his hand. The gulf in status was too great. As a junior, it wasn't his place to presume until the elders made a gesture first.

And truthfully, Henry wasn't eager to deal with such people. Power and privilege were magnets for trouble.

In their eyes, he was nothing more than Hepburn's proxy. Givenchy was the true peer who could speak with them. Henry was content to remain invisible—just as he had done at countless galas: listen, don't speak, and act as though you don't exist until addressed directly.

Sure enough, the Mellons treated him without disdain or hostility, but the sense of distance was unmistakable—a chasm of class that could not be bridged.

Henry didn't mind. He was just the driver, the ticket-booker. Nothing more.

Paul Mellon turned warmly to Givenchy: "Come, let's talk over dinner. Knowing you were coming, I had our chef prepare something special to honor your visit."

Givenchy chuckled. "I've heard more than one friend rave about your chef's cooking. Tonight, I finally get to taste it myself."

As the two men walked ahead, Rachel Lambert did not neglect Henry. She gently linked arms with him and guided him inside, asking, "And how is Miss Hepburn?"

Unsure how much to reveal, Henry remembered their visit was for a request the Mellons would eventually learn about anyway. So he answered honestly: "She had surgery yesterday. It went very smoothly. She's now recovering at Cedars-Sinai."

"Oh? What illness, if I may ask?"

"A rare form of appendix cancer. Neither Switzerland nor New York hospitals could diagnose it. Thankfully, the doctors at Cedars-Sinai managed to treat it successfully."

"God bless the good-hearted," Rachel said softly. She was likely older than Hepburn, yet in excellent health. Her words carried a simple, sincere blessing.

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