"Ha... Justice."
Anna's sneer rang out, and then she pulled over a chair and sat down of her own accord.
"It really is a beautiful word. The Argyle Charitable Foundation is also committed to justice. We have funded twenty orphanages and provided pensions for thousands of disabled veterans. That is also justice, isn't it?"
"Tch... Doing good deeds with dirty money squeezed from others still doesn't wash away the smell of blood on it."
Stengiss retorted with sharp words.
"It seems you have a deep misunderstanding of Argyle."
Anna took a check from her handbag; it was blank.
"Mr. Stengiss, I know you are also acting in the public interest. Perhaps we could cooperate? The foundation is planning to establish a'Special Legal Aid Fund' specifically to help poor people who cannot afford lawyer fees. We need an upright consultant. As for the annual salary... you can fill it in yourself."
Stengiss glanced at the check, then suddenly grabbed it and tore it to shreds.
"Don't look down on me. This is my answer!"
He threw the paper scraps into the air, staring fixedly at Anna.
"Miss Clark, please tell your Boss. I don't lack money; what I lack is a clean and perfect America. Please leave."
Anna did not get angry at the sight.
She watched the falling paper scraps, a look of pity flashing in her eyes.
"What a pity."
She stood up and smoothed out her skirt.
"Since you have rejected our friendship, then we can only handle things officially."
"However, Mr. Stengiss, in this city, some things are more important than money."
Anna gave him a meaningful look, then turned and left the office.
Stengiss watched her back, and a surge of unease suddenly welled up in his heart.
But he quickly suppressed this emotion. He hadn't done anything against his conscience, so what was there to fear!
"Intimidation."
"This is an attempt to intimidate me, but as long as I act justly, what can they do to me?"
Stengiss was not afraid of offending Anna, or even Minister Clark behind her.
Because the federal Department of Justice is independent and not under the jurisdiction of other departments... That evening, at a private club in Washington.
This was Felix's temporary base.
He was sitting in a corner, holding a telegram that had just arrived from Delaware.
"Felix, the fish didn't take the bait."
Anna walked in and took off her veil.
"That Stengiss is a stubborn one. He doesn't want money and isn't afraid of threats. He's like a rock."
"Even rocks have cracks."
Felix pushed the telegram toward Anna.
"This is his background check I had someone do."
"Hunt Stengiss. Born into a middle-class family in Boston. His father was a bankrupt cotton merchant who committed suicide five years ago."
"The key point is here." Felix pointed to a line in the telegram.
"His father went bankrupt because he owed a large amount of high-interest debt. And that debt was eventually sold to a company called Wilmington Trust."
"Wilmington?" Anna frowned. "That seems to be the Dupont Family's stronghold."
"Exactly." Felix lit a cigarette.
"What's more interesting is that Stengiss's tuition for Harvard was also funded by this trust company under the guise of a'scholarship'."
"You mean..." Anna's eyes lit up.
"He's a dog kept by the Duponts?"
"Not necessarily a dog; maybe he doesn't even know it himself." Felix exhaled a smoke ring.
"The Duponts are very good at this kind of long-term investment. Funding promising young people, waiting for them to climb to high positions, and then using those old debts or so-called 'favors' to control them."
"There's a smell of gunpowder behind this investigation."
"Two years ago, I gave the gunpowder supplier for the United Ammunition Company to Lafflin. Dupont has likely been looking for a way to retaliate. Now they want to use this knife to stab us. Even when I was in New York before, it seems they had a hand in things."
"What should we do then? Expose him?"
"No, exposing him would only turn him into a victim."
Felix pulled another document from his coat. It was a yellowed copy of a promissory note, along with several photos of Stengiss in some 'disreputable places' in Boston in his youth.
"According to Timmy's investigation, although Stengiss is a Puritan now, he had his wild days when he was young. He owed a sum of money due to gambling during law school, which was later settled by a 'good Samaritan'."
"What we need to do is not destroy him, but make him understand that the 'good Samaritan' wasn't God, but the devil."
"Anna." Felix looked at her.
"Go again tomorrow. Don't bring money. Bring these photos and this breakdown of the Dupont Family's funding for him."
"Tell him that if he doesn't want the public to know that this 'just' prosecutor is actually a puppet funded by other wealthy families, he'd better keep his mouth shut at the hearing."
"And if he doesn't..."
Felix stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Then help him shut up—physically."
Anna looked at the photos, a cold and elegant smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
"Felix, I like this plan better. It's much more elegant than giving money."
...In a private box at the Willard Hotel.
This was the center of political deals.
Tonight, Felix came here in person.
Not to see that young prosecutor Stengiss—that was Anna's job.
To Felix, that little prosecutor was just a pawn. He was here to see the person who could decide the direction of the game.
Roscoe Conkling, chairman of the Senate Committee on Railroads.
This Senator from New York was one of the most powerful figures in the Republican Party and a well-known political machine operator.
He was tall, with curly red hair, always dressed in the most fashionable clothes, arrogant and greedy.
"Mr. Argyle."
Conkling entered the box, shook hands, and sat directly across from Felix.
"I heard you built a palace on Long Island? Truly enviable."
"It's just a residence."
Felix cut a piece of steak, his tone flat.
"Compared to your office in the Capitol, it's still too remote."
"Remote is good; it's quiet."
Conkling took the red wine poured by the waiter and swirled it.
"Unlike Washington, which has been very noisy lately. That kid named Stengiss is shouting everywhere about investigating railroad freight rates. It's giving me a real headache."
"So how do you plan to treat your headache?" Felix asked.
"It's difficult."
Conkling sighed, feigning a look of helplessness.
"That kid has evidence, and public opinion isn't very friendly toward big corporations right now. If I suppress it by force, my constituents will be unhappy. You know, Mr. Argyle, next year is an election year. It's difficult to handle."
This was a negotiation of price.
Felix put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth.
"Difficult to handle? Do you mean you don't want to handle it, Mr. Conkling? I didn't invite you here to hear the words 'it's difficult'."
"I know the Dupont Family is behind Stengiss. I also know that in the list he prepared for the hearing, the Erie Railroad and the New York Central Railroad were absent; only the railroads under my banner were included."
"This is targeted political persecution."
Conklin shrugged. "Perhaps. But in Washington, the truth isn't important; what matters is the procedure."
"Procedure." Felix laughed.
"Speaking of procedure, I have a very interesting document here."
Flynn stepped out from the shadows and placed a thick envelope in front of Conklin.
"What is this?" Conklin frowned.
"These are the details of the 'extra income' your relatives at the New York Harbor customs have received over the past three years," Felix said calmly.
"Oh... and also, that so-called 'anonymous donation account' from your re-election campaign last year? The funds actually came from several textile mills looking to evade taxes."
Conklin's expression changed instantly.
He snapped his head up, staring intently at Felix.
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Argyle? Do you know where we are? I could have you kicked out of Washington by tomorrow!"
"Kick me out of Washington? Mr. Conklin, you are far too confident. Do you believe that I could have you removed from office in a few days? Hmm?"
Felix leaned forward, a fire burning in his eyes that made Conklin feel a sense of dread.
"You should know very well whether I can do it. Remember, your power base is in New York State!"
Felix's words immediately made Conklin's heart tighten.
He suddenly remembered that last month Argyle seemed to have formed a news and media company, and now controlled three of the top ten newspapers by circulation in New York State.
Furthermore, the current Secretaries of the War Department and the Department of the Interior—the most important in the government—were his allies. Conklin really wanted to smack himself in the head.
How could he have forgotten it all so completely, thinking only of getting some benefits?
This man was not someone to be easily manipulated, but now he seemed to be backed into a corner, making it hard to back down.
Seeing the change in Conklin's expression, Felix's eyes showed a hint of disdain.
Refusing a courtesy only to be forced. Look at how high and mighty you act.
However, Felix knew very well that now was not the time to make enemies.
"Of course, I don't want to go to war with you. After all, we are fellow townsmen."
"That Stengiss is a problem. Not just my problem, but yours as well. If he really blows the lid off the railroad freight rates, do you think the tax evasion records of those textile mills can stay hidden? When you pull up the radish, you bring up the mud."
"So, I have a better proposal."
Felix made a gesture, and Flynn brought out another document.
"The Argyle Charitable Foundation is planning to establish an 'American Railroad Development Fund.' We will invest one hundred thousand dollars annually to support 'visionary' politicians and promote bills beneficial to national construction."
"We would like to invite you to serve as an honorary advisor to this foundation."
One hundred thousand dollars.
Conklin looked at the figure, his Adam's apple bobbing.
On one side was scandalous information that would ruin his reputation and lead to his removal at any time; on the other was a steady stream of campaign money.
For a seasoned politician, there was no choice to make.
Besides, he had realized that he couldn't afford to offend the other party right now.
"That Stengiss..."
Conklin's voice softened as he pressed his hand down on the envelope containing the dirt.
"...is indeed too young and doesn't know the rules. I don't think he's quite suitable for such an important investigative role."
"I heard there's a vacancy for a federal judge in Montana?" Felix suggested with a smile.
"The scenery there is nice, a good place for a young man to be tempered."
"Good idea. I'll talk to the Department of Justice about it."
Conklin raised his glass, his face once again covered in smiles.
"To the cause of American railroads."
"To order." Felix raised his glass... The next day, the winds in Washington shifted.
The hearing originally scheduled for next Monday was suddenly announced as "postponed indefinitely," with the reason being "insufficient evidence, requiring further investigation."
The high-spirited young prosecutor, Henry Stengiss, was stunned after receiving a transfer order from the Department of Justice.
The transfer order stated that he was appointed as a federal circuit judge for the District of Montana.
To take office immediately.
No one knew what Anna had said to him when she went to see him that night, nor did anyone know why he didn't resist.
It was said that on the day he left Washington, he quietly took with him the fragments of that long-ago torn-up check.
No one knew why he kept them; they were useless now.
Meanwhile, in a manor in Wilmington, Delaware.
Henry Dupont, the patriarch of the gunpowder family, angrily threw a newspaper into the fireplace.
"That Argyle!" Dupont spat through gritted teeth. "He actually dared to touch my man!"
"Father, we underestimated him."
His son, Henry A. Dupont, stood to the side, his expression also somewhat grim.
"Argyle not only has money, but his roots in Washington are deeper than ours. He found out about our connection to Stengiss, and it seems there's some suspicion in New York as well."
"Then we can't use such petty tricks anymore."
The elder Dupont watched the flames consume the newspaper.
"Since he wants to play big, we'll play with him. Tell the people below to speed up the formation of that 'Explosives Trust'."
"His expansion in the military industry and railroads will eventually run into our line of fire. When that time comes, it won't be as simple as sending a couple of telegrams."
...March 5th, New York.
With the crisis in Washington resolved and the successful takeover of the Western Union Telegraph Company, Felix had smoothly cleared the small stones from his path.
Today was the opening day of the Universal Department Store.
Fifth Avenue was packed with people.
The massive glass display windows showcased fashions from Paris, silks and porcelain from China, and the latest typewriters and sewing machines.
Old Gable, dressed in a brand-new tailcoat, stood at the door, his face beaming with wrinkles.
He watched the crowds pouring in as if he saw countless pickles dancing.
Felix stood across the street, looking down at it all.
"Boss, we won."
Frost stood behind him.
"Just a small victory, but it seems the Dupont Family has their eyes on me."
Felix turned to look at the increasingly dense business map on the wall.
"But in this country, there are no permanent winners. Only permanent fighters."
"Have Miller and the others prepare well. Since the Dupont Family has started looking for trouble, I have to show them my stance."
As Frost withdrew, Felix couldn't help but rub his temples.
After all, the Dupont Family was not easy to deal with, whether in business or by force.
In business, the Dupont Family had assets worth tens of millions of dollars, and their company monopolized nearly half of the federal gunpowder and chemical industries. Even if Felix gave the gunpowder supply of the United Ammunition Company to the Lafflin Company, they could only barely break even.
In terms of force, their patriarch Henry Dupont had served as the Adjutant General of Delaware for many years and was promoted to Major General during the Civil War.
Also, his cousin Samuel Francis Dupont had served as a Rear Admiral; although he died two years ago, he left behind naval connections for the Dupont Family.
March 5, 1867, was destined to be recorded in the business annals of America.
When the first light of dawn pierced through the mist and shone upon the massive building on 34th Street and Fifth Avenue, the street was already crowded with people.
The six-story Baroque-style building, with exterior walls of Indiana limestone, appeared a warm creamy yellow in the sunlight.
Most eye-catching was the massive glass window occupying an entire wall of the first floor, the largest single pane of glass in the United States at the time.
Inside the window, goods were not cluttered together like in other shops; instead, they were arranged into a refined scene.
Several wax mannequins dressed in French silk gowns sat around a dining table laden with silverware and bone china, as if enjoying a royal banquet.
Behind them were rows of typewriters and sewing machines gleaming with a metallic luster.
"Universal Department Store."
A massive brass sign shimmered above the entrance.
"Oh my God, look at that..."
In the crowd, a young worker in overalls held his wife's hand and pointed at a price tag in the window.
"That sewing machine is only twenty-five dollars? I remember them selling for forty at the specialty stores on Broadway!"
"Tell me about it, and look at that silk."
His wife's eyes shone with longing.
"Look, it's actually only fifty cents a yard? I heard it's real silk! Good God, that's cheaper than buying thread and weaving it myself."
"This is Mr. Argyle's promise; he truly is the pride of American business."
A stout gentleman holding a newspaper chimed in, waving his copy of The New York Daily Truth.
"The paper said that Universal Department Store sources directly from factories. No middlemen to mark up the price. And look..."
The stout gentleman pointed at the two handsome doormen in uniforms and white gloves on either side of the entrance.
"Shopping here, you don't have to deal with a shopkeeper's attitude like at a grocery store. Their slogan is 'The customer is God'."
At nine in the morning, with a crisp chime of a bell, the heavy mahogany doors slowly swung open.
Old Gable, dressed in a crisp tailcoat with a bright red rose pinned to his chest, stood in the center of the hall. His hair was slicked back, and a heartfelt, infectious smile beamed from his face.
"Welcome, everyone, to Universal Department Store!"
Gable's voice trembled slightly with excitement.
"Under this roof, whether you are a gentleman living on Fifth Avenue or a worker from the Lower East Side, you are our most honored guest. We are now officially open. Please, come in!"
The crowd surged in like a tide.
The first customers to enter were stunned by the sight before them.
First to catch the eye was the ground floor hall, its floor paved with expensive marble. In the center was a massive fountain, its water dancing to soothing music. To the left was the cosmetics and jewelry section, the scent of perfume from Grasse wafting through the air; to the right was the men's section, offering everything from cigars to leather shoes.
But the most shocking thing was what the newspapers had reported as an "escalator."
In reality, it was just a simple lifting platform driven by a steam engine, developed by the Central Laboratory based on Felix's descriptions.
But to the people of that time, it was nothing short of a miracle.
"Mama, Mama, look! That box moves by itself!"
A little boy shouted in surprise, pointing at the glass car that was slowly ascending.
"Heh heh... don't run off, Tom."
His mother held his hand tightly, but her own eyes were wide with wonder.
She had never stepped foot in such a luxurious place before.
The second floor was the women's clothing department.
There were no mountains of fabric here; instead, there were individual fitting rooms. Customers could take clothes inside to try them on and exchange them at any time if they weren't satisfied.
"Beautiful lady, you look absolutely stunning in this pale blue dress."
A young, beautiful saleswoman walked over. She lacked the typical salesman's cynicism, offering instead sincere praise. She even helped the worker's wife straighten her hem.
"This is the latest style from Paris. And because we purchase in bulk, the price is only half that of other stores."
The wife looked at herself in the mirror and blushed.
She had never worn such beautiful clothes, nor had she ever been treated with such respect.
"Buy it! We'll buy it!"
Her husband said grandly from the side, pulling a crumpled coin purse from his pocket.
On the third floor, in the daily necessities section, the scene was even more heated.
It was packed with canned goods, flour, and candies from Argyle & Co. Foods, as well as fresh meat provided by Metropolitan Trading Company.
"Pickles, Gable's Special Pickles. Buy two, get one free!"
The shouts of the sales clerks rose and fell in succession.
The housewives were buying in a frenzy because the prices were so cheap. A pound of beef was only eight cents, a full twenty percent cheaper than at the market.
"How is it possible to make a profit?"
In a corner, a rival grocery store owner who had come to "scout the enemy" shook his head in despair as he looked at the price tags.
"This is taking a loss to gain popularity; Old Gable is destroying the rules of the market!"
"Perhaps you are mistaken, sir."
A deep voice sounded behind him.
The grocery store owner turned and saw a tall man dressed in a dark suit.
It was Jones.
"This isn't a loss-making business."
Jones said with a smile, a hint of shrewdness in his eyes.
"This is the effect of scale. When we purchase ten thousand head of cattle at once, the cost naturally drops. Furthermore, we have our own railways and cold chains. Whereas you..."
Jones patted the owner's shoulder.
"You're still relying on horse-drawn carriages to transport goods. That's the difference."
The owner's face turned pale, and he slinked away.
Many grocery store owners knew that from this day forward, New York's retail industry was about to change forever.
All day long, Universal Department Store was in a state of fervor.
By the time it closed at nine in the evening, the lines at the registers still stretched out into the street.
In the manager's office on the top floor, Old Gable was slumped on the sofa, a glass of water in his hand, which was still shaking slightly.
"How was it?"
Felix pushed the door open and entered.
"Boss..."
Gable tried to stand, but his legs were weak.
"Stay seated."
Felix walked to the window and looked down at the still-bustling street below.
"Today's sales figures are out."
Jones held a report, his voice pitching high with excitement. "Thirty-five thousand dollars, in just one day!"
"So much! Good God..." Gable clutched his chest in surprise.
His old shop wouldn't have sold that much in a year.
"This is just the beginning for the department store industry."
Felix turned to look at the two men.
"Tomorrow, the newspapers will spread the word of this grand occasion across the country. Prepare well; we're opening the Philadelphia store next month. By the end of the year, the Chicago store. Mr. Gable, you need to train more store managers."
"I want Universal Department Store to become a way of life in the United States."
"Mr. Gable, you've done a fine job." Felix patted the old man's shoulder.
"I tasted those pickles; the flavor hasn't changed."
Old Gable laughed, laughing until tears streamed down his face.
"Thank you, Felix. As long as you like them, I'll pickle them for the rest of my life."
Outside, the New York night grew darker.
But the massive neon sign of Universal Department Store—made of gas lamps—still shone in the night sky like a golden lighthouse, announcing the arrival of the age of consumption.
The Universal Department Store was able to integrate into the lives of New Yorkers so quickly.
A large part of the reason was due to the News Media Company, which began heavy promotion in newspapers two months prior.
As a manager who took office at roughly the same time, Vincent Fowler had a better start than Mr. Gable.
Because Felix already owned a newspaper office in New York, Fowler was able to reorganize and take office immediately upon arrival.
Renamed The New York Daily Truth, the headquarters building of the News Media Company was located at Printing House Square, directly across from City Hall.
This was the heart of the New York news industry, where millions of newspapers flowed to every corner of the city every day.
Vincent Fowler stood in his spacious office on the fourth floor, overlooking the street below.
Holding a cup of strong coffee, the old suit he had bought in Chicago had been replaced by a high-end custom piece from New York's Fifth Avenue; he looked like a shrewd politician rather than the ink-stained editor he once was.
"Manager Fowler, these are the telegrams sent from the various state branches."
A young secretary walked in carrying a stack of documents.
Fowler turned around and took the telegrams.
"Boston's 'New England Courier' has basically completed its reorganization according to your plan. The original editor-in-chief was 'persuaded to retire' with a high salary, and the new one is one of our own."
"Also, Philadelphia's 'Evening Bulletin' is negotiating with a local printing plant. If we can secure that plant, we can reduce costs by 15% and won't constantly need blood transfusions from the company."
Then the secretary paused, looking a bit hesitant.
"And regarding Chicago... the owner of The Chicago Tribune is still resisting. He says he won't sell his shares to our News Media Company even if it kills him."
"Ha... even if it kills him? Old James still loves to talk tough."
Fowler, a Chicago native himself, let out a cold sneer. He knew James well; the man was terrified of death and was likely just trying to squeeze out more money.
But Fowler would not be led by the nose; in two months, he had developed the decisiveness of a company manager.
"Then let him die."
Fowler slammed his coffee cup onto the table.
"Notify the Chicago branch. Starting tomorrow, we're launching a price war. Lower the price of The Daily Truth to one cent per copy. At the same time, increase reports on that owner's 'private life'."
"I heard he has an illegitimate son? Or that he lost money at the racetrack? Dig it all up, whatever it is. If there's nothing, make something up."
"But Manager, wouldn't that be..."
"Wouldn't that be what? Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?"
Fowler glared at the secretary; it was practically an inversion of the natural order.
"Remember this well: we are in the news business, not the charity business. News is war; whoever has the loudest voice has the truth."
Fowler walked over to the rows of massive filing cabinets. They held the archives of over a dozen newspapers under the News Media Company.
This was the task Felix had given him: integration.
Over the past two months, Fowler had been like a tireless madman, traveling between various cities.
He used money to clear the way and threats to bring up the rear, quickly clenching those scattered newspaper offices into a single fist.
Now, the News Media Company controlled the newspaper distribution channels in seven major cities, including New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago.
Every morning, over five hundred thousand newspapers were printed with the will of Argyle.
"By the way, how are the talks going with the Western Union Telegraph Company?" Fowler asked.
A few days ago, he had received notice that Western Union could cooperate to give them priority for news material, so he had quickly arranged for people to make contact; hence the question.
"It's been settled," the secretary replied.
"chairman Jepson signed it personally. From now on, our news company will have priority publishing rights for all news dispatches transmitted through the Western Union network."
"In other words, if something big happens in London, our papers will know half an hour before The New York Times and The Tribune."
"Beautifully done." Fowler snapped his fingers.
"That is the beauty of a monopoly. Time is money, and time is the right to speak."
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
A well-dressed middle-aged man walked in. He was the head of a famous New York publishing house named Harper.
Well... this publishing house now also belonged to the News Media Company.
"Mr. Fowler," Harper said with a worried look, "regarding that 'Popular Fiction Plan' you proposed... I think it's somewhat inappropriate."
"What's inappropriate about it?"
Fowler sat back in his executive chair and crossed his legs.
"You're asking us to publish those... those 'dime novels' that sell for only 10 cents each. And the content is all about Cowboys, detective cases, and even..."
Harper found it a bit hard to say, "...even some vulgar romance stories."
"This will lower the prestige of our publishing house! We are a serious publisher that has published the works of Emerson and Thoreau."
"Prestige?" Fowler snorted in contempt.
"Mr. Harper, have you been to the Lower East Side? Have you been to those factories? Those workers are exhausted after a long day; they don't want to read Emerson talking about the philosophy of life. They want to see how that guy called 'Buffalo Bill' shoots two indians with one bullet. They want to see how that poor girl marries a millionaire!"
Fowler took a sample book from his drawer; it was 'Red Dead Redemption' which he'd had a few destitute writers whip up.
"This is the mental food they want. Simple, exciting, and satisfying."
"And..." Fowler pointed to the back cover of the book, "Look here."
A huge advertisement was printed on the back cover:
"Want a body as strong as the protagonist's? Drink Argyle Beef Soup! Available at Universal Department Store!"
"This is business, Harper," Fowler said earnestly.
"We aren't just selling books; we're selling everything Argyle. We're going to stuff these stories into the head of every literate American, along with our products."
"Print it. Print a hundred thousand copies first. If it doesn't sell, the loss is on the company."
Harper looked at the big manager before him who was reeking of money and sighed helplessly.
"Fine, as you wish."
After Harper left, Fowler stood up and looked out the window again.
The Stars and Stripes flew atop the City Hall building opposite him.
And beneath his feet, in this building filled with the smell of ink, another kind of power was brewing.
That power was invisible and intangible, yet it could sway votes, determine a person's reputation, and even launch a war of public opinion.
"The Boss is right," Fowler murmured to himself. "This is the true arsenal."
He picked up a pen and wrote tomorrow's front-page headline on a blank sheet of paper:
"Argyle Manor: The Pride of the United States of America, or a Gospel for Workers? — An exclusive reveal of the great project that created thousands of jobs, and the great Argyle Family behind it."
"Now that is what you call correct news."
Fowler nodded with a satisfied smile.
March 28th, Lower East Side, New York.
The streets here were narrow and muddy, lined with old-fashioned apartments known as "Tenements."
They were a synonym for poverty.
No ventilation, no light, and not even a sewer system. Hundreds of people were crammed into a single building, sharing foul-smelling dry latrines.
But today, a group of uninvited guests arrived.
Arthur Hamilton, wearing a black trench coat and a face mask, stood by a stinking ditch holding a map.
He was accompanied by several engineers carrying surveying instruments and a dozen security guards with weapons tucked into their belts.
"This is the area."
Hamilton pointed to the crumbling, unfinished building ahead.
It was a relic left by a bankrupt developer, abandoned for two years and now a playground for vagrants and rats.
"According to City Hall's planning, this will be designated as a 'Sanitary Rectification Zone,'" Hamilton's voice was cold and professional.
"Now we are going to level all this trash and build the company's new apartments."
"But sir..."
An old engineer accompanying him showed a look of concern.
"There are still many people living in this building. Even if it's illegal occupation, if we forcibly evict them..."
"Illegal is illegal," Hamilton interrupted him.
"We are law-abiding citizens. Since I have the land deed, everything here is the property of the Federal Real Estate Company."
Hamilton turned and looked at the security captain.
"Give them three days and post warning signs. In three days, I don't want a single living thing left here."
"What if they don't leave?" the captain asked with a shrug.
"Then help them leave."
Hamilton took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the mud splashes off his leather shoes.
"Remember, what we are building is low-rent housing. It's to provide these poor people with a better living environment. This is an act of charity."
"And before doing charity, there must always be some sacrifice."
Meanwhile, in a small tavern a few blocks away.
Several men who looked like union leaders were gathered together, their expressions solemn.
"Have you heard? That kid named Hamilton is too ruthless."
A man with a face full of stubble said, his face filled with helplessness.
"He not only bought the unfinished building but is also buying up the houses of small owners around it like a mad dog. He keeps the prices extremely low, and if anyone dares not to sell, their door gets splashed with paint or their windows smashed the next day."
"Is this also Argyle' idea?" another person asked.
"Must be. Besides that vampire, who else has so much money?"
"We can't just let it go like this."
The stubbled man slammed the table, his voice growing louder.
"That is our home. It might be broken, but it's still home. We have to resist, we can even go to City Hall to protest!"
"Give it a rest, Wade," an old man in the corner sneered.
"City Hall? The official in charge of land planning just returned from the Argyle Manor construction site yesterday. It's said Hamilton even had dinner with him last night."
"Then we'll go block his door," the stubbled man stood up.
"Motherfucker. I don't believe he dares to kill people in broad daylight!"
...Three days later.
In front of the unfinished building, hundreds of angry residents gathered. They held clubs, stones, and even a few old-fashioned shotguns.
Opposite this crowd stood two rows of fully armed Vanguard Security guards. They held Vanguard Type 64 Rifles, and behind them stood two Vanguard Type 65 Rotary Machine Guns—Gatlings.
Hamilton stood on the roof of a carriage, holding a tin megaphone.
"Hey... Ladies and Gentlemen! I am Arthur Hamilton, the manager of the Federal Real Estate Company."
His voice was remarkably clear amidst the noisy crowd.
"I know you are angry, but I hope you see the reality of the situation. This building is already a very dangerous structure and could collapse at any time. Moreover, three people died in the last fire here; have you forgotten so quickly?"
"We aren't here to drive you away and leave you homeless, okay? We're here to help you rebuild your homes."
Hamilton waved his hand, and several assistants set up a huge display board nearby.
On it was a painting of a neat red-brick apartment building. It had spacious windows, private bathrooms, and even a communal laundry room.
"This is the new house we are going to build—Federal Gardens."
"As long as you leave now and register at the registration desk over there, you will have priority leasing rights once the building is completed, according to the contract between our company and the city government. Furthermore, the first year's rent will be 20% off!"
"For only five dollars a month, you can live in a house like this."
The crowd began to stir.
They had thought the Federal Real Estate Company was simply driving them out to become vagrants.
They didn't expect the completed houses would continue to be rented to them.
Although it still cost money, five dollars...
That was even cheaper than the rent they previously paid to those unscrupulous landlords.
And the house in the painting looked like heaven.
"Lies!"
The stubbled man rushed out from the crowd.
"They are capitalists; they only want to suck our blood. Once the house is built, the rent will surely skyrocket!"
"Arrest him," Hamilton ordered coldly.
Two security guards rushed forward, efficiently pinning the stubbled man to the ground and handcuffing him.
"This man is suspected of inciting a riot and illegal possession of weapons," Hamilton told the crowd. "We have already called the police."
With the leader captured and the tempting blueprint, the crowd's resolve began to crumble.
"Is it really only five dollars?"
A woman holding a child asked timidly.
"Madam, I guarantee it," Hamilton smiled.
"Everyone knows Mr. Argyle' reputation."
Slowly, some people lowered their clubs. Others began to walk toward the registration desk.
One, two... finally, most people chose to compromise.
After all, in this cruel city, survival was more important than dignity.
As the sun set, the unfinished building was empty.
As the demolition team set the explosives, the unfinished building began to be erased.
"Boom!"
The walls collapsed, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Hamilton stood in the dust, looking at the ruins with no emotion in his eyes.
"Clean it up thoroughly," he said to the assistant beside him. "I want to see the foundation of the new building laid by next month."
"This piece of land will be gold in the future."
Not far away, Felix sat in a carriage, watching this scene through a gap in the curtains.
"This Hamilton is indeed a talent," Felix said to Miller beside him.
"Holding a big stick in one hand to disperse troublemakers and candy in the other to entice them. He's much better than those subordinates of yours who only know how to fight and kill."
"Yes, Boss."
Although Miller was somewhat unconvinced, he had to admit it.
"But can those poor people really afford to live in the new houses?"
"Of course they can," Felix said calmly.
"Even for those without jobs, I will give them work. Let them work in the factories to earn a wage, then give that wage back to me for rent, and then go to my department store to buy things."
"This is called a closed loop."
Felix closed the curtains.
"Let's go, to Long Island. I want to see Hunt's progress."
The carriage started slowly, rolling over the gravel on the ground.
Behind it, a new New York was rising from the ruins.
It was the New York that belonged to Argyle.
Sand Point, Long Island.
As time passed, the breath of spring finally dispelled the chill by the sea.
On the construction site of Argyle Manor, the outline of the main castle was already clearly visible.
The massive limestone walls had already reached the third floor, and exquisite stone carvings imported from Europe were being carefully installed on window frames and cornices by craftsmen.
Underground, the project for the massive energy center and vault was also nearing completion.
Felix walked with a group through the newly laid underground utility tunnels. It was spacious enough for a horse carriage, and the walls on both sides were densely lined with copper pipes and even thicker steam pipes.
"This is what I wanted. With these, this castle can truly be considered alive."
Felix stroked the cold pipes, feeling somewhat sentimental.
After all, this wasn't easy to arrange; an ordinary person really couldn't bypass the gas company to set up an independent energy center.
It was only because he currently held quite a significant amount of weight in the New York Gas Company and could handle those old fogies that he was able to pull it off.
Even Vanderbilt couldn't manage it!
Behind him, Hunt, the designer and engineer, followed with blueprints in hand, looking exhausted yet full of excitement.
"Mr. Argyle, based on the current progress of the manor project, I expect the castle's roof to be completed before this winter. By next spring, perhaps you can move in."
"Oh? Is the progress that fast? It seems you've put in a lot of effort; you've all done quite well."
Felix praised them with a hint of surprise; after all, he really hadn't expected the castle to be finished so quickly.
After all, this wasn't over a hundred years later, where there would be so much construction machinery.
In his mind, finishing the castle within two years would have been good enough, and other facilities in the manor could be renovated gradually later on.
It seemed his real estate manager was doing a good job as a supervisor. However, Felix still mentioned one thing.
"But don't forget the garden; I want to see white roses blooming this summer."
"Rest assured, the greenhouse is already built. The first batch of white rose seedlings has been planted."
Stepping out of the utility tunnel, Felix strolled to the edge of the cliff.
The setting sun dyed the sea blood-red. In the distance, a warship flying the Stars and Stripes was slowly passing by.
"Boss, that's the USS Franklin of the Union Navy."
Seeing Felix looking at the warship, Miller spoke up from beside him.
"I heard it's going on a visit to Europe."
"Europe..." Felix narrowed his eyes. Was it such a coincidence?
"I heard things have been a bit unsettled over in Europe lately."
"Yes, Boss," Flynn appeared behind him at some point.
"According to the intelligence we've gathered, the French and the Prussians are arguing fiercely over the Luxembourg issue. The scent of war between the upper echelons of both nations is growing stronger."
"Isn't that great? After all, this is an opportunity for us to make money."
Felix smiled; he naturally knew the two sides would eventually come to blows.
Ultimately, Prussia, leading the North German Confederation, would establish the German Empire through the Franco-Prussian War, stepping over the corpse of the then-powerful Second French Empire.
Thus began decades of prosperity, becoming one of the Great Powers.
The German army was hailed as the world's finest land force.
Precisely because he knew this outcome, Felix's companies had engaged in more and more trade with Prussia over the years, starting with arms deals. Whether it was food, medicine, or tech products, they could all successfully enter the European market.
They even used it as a bridgehead to expand their business scope into Eastern and Northern Europe.
"By the way, Miller, have the branch in Prussia sell more guns and cannons. Tell them that no matter who wins, Argyle must win the money."
"You know, Boss, Prussia's Krupp has been imitating our armaments for the past few years. They're almost as good as Vanguard's now. It's only their breech-loading cannons that are still a bit inferior to ours, so trying to sell too much to Prussia is a bit unrealistic."
Miller shrugged helplessly.
Over the last few years, although Vanguard Military Industry's guns and cannons had opened up the European market through several of Prussia's battles...
...their market share in the North German Confederation led by Prussia had been steadily decreasing because they now had their own armaments.
"That's simple. Since Prussia doesn't need them, sell them to France and Austria. You can even go to Eastern Europe and find the Russian Empire."
Felix shot Miller a look; if Prussia didn't need them, weren't there other countries?
Especially France, which was about to go to war with Prussia—couldn't they take the initiative to go and pitch to them?
"Never mind. Frost, send a telegram to Jenkins when we get back. Have him pitch Militech's guns and cannons in France, and tell him to mention how well-equipped the Prussian army currently is. See if we can land a big order."
"Understood!" Frost replied from behind.
As for the direction of the Franco-Prussian War if France had better armaments?
Felix wasn't worried.
Then Flynn stepped forward and handed over another telegram.
"Boss, there's news from Washington."
Felix took the telegram, and after a glance, his brows began to furrow slightly.
The telegram was from Anna.
"Boss, the Dupont Family hasn't given up. They're lobbying Congress, trying to pass a 'Strategic Materials Control Act.' Nominally for national security, it's actually intended to restrict our arms exports to Europe."
"Moreover, according to investigations, they are uniting with several chemical companies to form a 'Gunpowder Trust,' attempting to cut off the supply of raw materials to the Laughlin Company."
"It seems that old man Henry Dupont is truly getting desperate."
Felix let out a cold laugh, crumpled the telegram into a ball, and threw it into the sea.
"He thinks he can trap me with just this?"
"Boss, should we strike back?" Miller's hand rested on his pistol grip.
"I can send some people to Delaware to show them what's what."
"No rush," Felix waved his hand.
"That's not the best solution. Unlike Morgan, the Dupont Family has operated in that state for over a hundred years; it's their territory now."
"We need to use a more sophisticated method."
Felix turned around, looking at the rising castle behind him, his eyes flashing with the light of wisdom.
"Flynn, go check if there are any 'disobedient' young people in the Dupont Family, or any collateral relatives who want to split the family assets."
"After all, a fortress is always breached from within."
"Also, notify Hayes. Have him keep an eye on a few small banks in Delaware. If the Dupont Family wants to form a trust, they'll need a lot of cash. We can set a trap for them on their purse strings."
"Understood."
The sea breeze blew, slightly ruffling the hem of Felix's coat.
He stood at the edge of the cliff with his back to the sunset, like a monarch surveying his domain.
Beneath his feet was the solid foundation of the castle.
Behind him was a vast commercial empire.
And ahead was an impending, brutal business war.
But Felix was not afraid.
Because only through war could his empire become more secure.
Wilmington, Delaware.
The city sat on the banks of the Brandywine Creek, and the air was perpetually thick with a peculiar scent.
It was the pungent odor of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter mixed together—the smell of black powder.
To the Dupont Family, however, it was the fragrance of money.
In the Dupont estate by the river, Henry Dupont, an old man revered both within the family and by the outside world as "the General," stood on a balcony watching the smoke-belching factories in the distance.
Though in his sixties, his back remained ramrod straight.
"What's the word from Argyle' side?"
Henry turned to ask his eldest son, Henry Algernon Dupont, who stood behind him.
"It's very quiet, Father."
Young Henry said, holding a report in his hand.
"Since that prosecutor was transferred last time, Washington has gone silent. In New York, Argyle seems busy with his department store and his mansion on Long Island. Our informants say he's scouring the place for rare rose seedlings."
"Planting flowers?" Old Henry snorted coldly.
"That's just for show for the women. That man is a wolf, and a wolf doesn't switch to eating grass."
Old Henry walked to a map and traced a circle with his finger.
"Our 'Gunpowder Trust' plan must be accelerated. Although that Congressional bill is temporarily shelved, we must use commercial means to squeeze Laughlin to death. Once we cut off Laughlin's saltpeter supply, Argyle' military industry will become a toothless tiger."
"But Father..." Young Henry hesitated slightly.
"Some within the family have objections to this. Especially Cousin Lammot. He believes we should invest our capital into that new thing called 'dynamite' instead of acquiring those obsolete black powder workshops."
"Lammot?" Old Henry frowned.
"That bastard is still tinkering with nitroglycerin in the lab all day? Tell him that as long as I am the head of the Dupont Family, Delaware will never produce that unstable liquid. That stuff will send the workers and the factory to heaven together."
"Black powder is the foundation. It's stable, safe, and the military can't live without it," Old Henry declared stubbornly, setting the tone.
"Continue with the original plan and acquire those three chemical plants in Pennsylvania. We need to control the raw materials."
However, the old General didn't know that an invisible 'termite' had already bored into his seemingly monolithic family territory... On the second floor of a hotel named the Black Horse in Wilmington.
Flynn stood behind a curtain, observing the street through a gap. He had changed his attire today, looking like a textile merchant who had come to purchase dyes.
"Chief, the target has appeared."
The door was pushed open, and an ordinary-looking young man walked in. He was the mole Flynn had planted in Delaware, named Doyle.
"Where?" Flynn asked.
"Just now, at the side door of the Dupont factory lab," Doyle said in a low voice.
"That young man named Lammot Dupont just had a huge row with Old Henry. According to the gatekeeper, Lammot smashed a glass and shouted, 'We are missing out on the future!'"
"How interesting."
Flynn sat back in his chair, fiddling with a silver coin in his hand.
"It seems the Boss was right; fortresses are always breached from within."
"Have the specifics been cleared up?"
"Yes, sir."
Doyle pulled out a somewhat crumpled notebook.
"Lammot Dupont is Old Henry's nephew and the most talented chemist in the family. A few years ago, he applied for a patent regarding a purification process for 'Smokeless Powder,' but the patent rights were forcibly assigned to the family name."
"Furthermore, he has recently been researching Nobel's nitroglycerin explosives. He believes it's the future of mining. But Old Henry is a conservative and strictly forbids him from conducting experiments in the factory. Lammot is very dissatisfied; he feels the family is being ruined by the old man's stubbornness."
"Since all the funds were taken by Old Henry for those 'Trust' acquisitions, Lammot's lab hasn't received a new allocation in three months. He even has to pay for acid out of his own pocket."
Flynn listened, a mocking sneer curling his lips.
This was the rift.
Geniuses are always conceited, and when a conceited genius meets an autocratic patriarch, it's the perfect opportunity for subversion.
"Doyle." Flynn put away the silver coin.
"Go find out where Lammot usually goes to drink. Or if he has a mistress or something."
"But he doesn't go to bars, Chief. He's a nerd," Doyle scratched his head.
"However, I heard he goes to the city library every Wednesday night for a science club gathering."
"Science club?"
Flynn stood up and straightened his collar.
"Not a bad place. It seems I'll have to brush up on my chemistry knowledge too."
"Chief, you're going to contact him personally? This is Dupont territory; their eyes and ears are everywhere."
Doyle frowned slightly. Flynn was the head of their intelligence department, after all; appearing so casually in enemy territory wasn't a good idea.
"Precisely because it's their territory, they won't expect someone to dare undermine them right under their noses."
Flynn walked to the mirror and adjusted his expression, instantly transforming from a cold intelligence chief into a chemical industry investor thirsting for knowledge.
"You have to remember, pal, we're not here to cause destruction. We're here to deliver 'warmth' and 'freedom'."
Wednesday, in the basement of the Wilmington Library.
The room was filled with smoke, and about a dozen bespectacled men sat in a circle, discussing molecular formulas and chemical reactions.
Lammot Dupont sat in a corner, drinking poor-quality coffee with a gloomy expression.
"The stability of nitroglycerin lies in the choice of absorbent..."
Lammot muttered to himself, his pen drawing on the paper.
"Diatomaceous earth is good, but is there something better?"
"Perhaps wood flour could work?"
A voice spoke up beside him.
Lammot looked up and saw a stranger sitting next to him.
"Who are you?"
Lammot asked warily; clearly, he didn't know this man.
"Just a businessman interested in explosions," Flynn smiled, appearing quite polite.
"I heard that someone holds the key to the future but is locked behind a rusty old door called 'Family'."
Lammot's gaze changed; he understood the subtext of those words.
"Sir, who are you exactly? What do you want by approaching me? I don't believe I know you."
"Who I am isn't important. If you're uneasy, you can just think of me as someone who wants to hand you a hammer."
Flynn took a business card from his pocket, which bore only a name and an address in New York.
"Or rather, someone who can give you a check large enough to build your own factory, without having to listen to any old man's nagging."
Top floor of the Empire Bank Building, New York.
Tom Hayes, President of Patriot Investment Company, sat in Felix's office holding a bank analysis report from Delaware.
"Boss, Flynn's side has already pried open a crack in that chemist. Now it's our turn to draw some blood from the Dupont Family."
Hayes pushed up his glasses, his eyes gleaming with the greed and shrewdness characteristic of Wall Street.
Felix was watering a pot of asparagus fern that had just been moved from the greenhouse.
"Tell me, what did you find?"
"The Dupont Family may be wealthy, but their cash flow isn't as abundant as the outside world imagines," Hayes said, opening the report and pointing to a section.
"Good God... to form that 'Gunpowder Trust,' Old Henry has actually gone on a buying spree over the past six months, acquiring four small to medium-sized chemical plants in Pennsylvania and New Jersey."
"These acquisitions cost them about 1.5 million dollars in cash. According to our intelligence within the banking system, they took out short-term loans from three local banks in Wilmington to maintain their turnover."
Hayes pointed to several names on the report.
"Brandywine Valley Bank, Wilmington First National Bank, and Delaware Trust Company."
"These three banks are the Dupont Family's long-term vaults. Especially Brandywine Valley Bank—the Dupont Family holds a 30% stake there, with the rest scattered among local merchants and farmers."
"The key point is..."
Hayes flashed a cunning smile.
"To support Dupont's expansion, these small banks have stretched their liquidity very thin. They rely heavily on interbank lending from large New York banks to maintain daily withdrawals."
Felix put down the watering can and sat back in his chair.
"You mean if we cut this pipe, they'll be deprived of oxygen?"
"Not just deprived of oxygen—they'll suffocate," Hayes said.
"President Templeton has already checked. The main lenders for these three banks in New York are Wells Fargo Bank and our Argyle Empire Bank."
"We can't control things at Wells Fargo, but the Argyle Bank holds 200,000 dollars in short-term commercial paper from Brandywine Valley Bank. It matures next Tuesday."
"If we refuse to renew on that day and demand immediate cash payment..."
"Then they'll have to scrape every last coin out of their vault," Felix finished the thought.
Hayes added, "And I've already arranged for a few people to spread rumors in Wilmington. For example, that Dupont's new factory investment failed, or that the president of Brandywine Bank ran off with the money."
"A bank run," Felix uttered the word.
"Yes, a bank run. For small banks, it's fatal. Once depositors start lining up to withdraw money, the Dupont Family will be forced to use their final reserves to save the bank. That way, Old Henry won't have any money for his trust, and he'll even have to cut off Lammot's laboratory funding."
"It's a matter of not being able to save both the head and the feet at the same time." Felix nodded, approving the plan.
"But keep it clean. Don't let anyone trace it back to us."
"Don't worry, Boss. Rumors are like the wind; no one will know where they blew in from."
...May 15, 1867, Wilmington, Delaware.
This day was originally an ordinary Tuesday.
The doors of Brandywine Valley Bank opened at 9:00 AM as usual.
Mr. Parker, the bank president, was sitting in his office comfortably sipping coffee. As a vassal of the Dupont Family, he lived a very comfortable life.
"Mr. President!"
The credit department manager rushed in frantically, forgetting to even knock.
"Something's happened! New York... Argyle Empire Bank sent a telegram saying they won't renew the 200,000 in notes that are coming due. They also demand the cash be wired by three o'clock this afternoon."
"What?"
President Parker's hand shook, spilling coffee on his trousers.
"Not renewing? Why? We've worked together for three years!"
"They said... it's to 'control risk,' and that they heard we've lent too much money to high-risk chemical plants."
"Bastards! Those are Dupont Family properties! How could they be high-risk?" Parker was exasperated.
"Quick, send a telegram to Wells Fargo Bank to borrow some money for turnover."
"I already did. Wells Fargo said their funds are tight lately and they've suspended interbank lending."
Parker felt a wave of dizziness.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
Half an hour later, dozens of people holding passbooks suddenly flooded into the bank lobby. Most were nearby farmers and small merchants.
"We want to withdraw our money. All of it!"
"I heard a Dupont factory exploded and they can't pay! The bank is going under!"
"Give me back my hard-earned money!"
In the crowd, a few seemingly honest "farmers" (who were actually actors hired by Hayes) shouted the loudest.
"My cousin works for the Duponts; he says Old Henry has already emptied the vault. Withdraw your money, quick!"
Panic spread like a plague.
Citizens who were just passing by saw the long lines at the bank and instinctively went home to grab their passbooks and join the queue.
This was a bank run.
It didn't need truth; it only needed fear.
"President, there's not enough cash at the counter!" the manager ran in, his voice cracking.
"The line outside is already across the street. If we can't produce the money, they'll smash the counters."
Parker slumped in his chair, his face pale.
"Call the Dupont Estate... no, send someone on horseback! Quick! Beg the General to save us! We need cash, right now."
...Dupont Estate.
Old Henry was negotiating acquisitions with representatives from several chemical companies.
"Once you sign this, your factories will fall under the Dupont banner, and I will guarantee your profits..."
"General!"
The butler rushed in, disregarding etiquette, his face white as a sheet.
"Something has happened. President Parker sent someone for help—he says Brandywine Bank is being run! New York cut off the funding chain, and depositors are besieging the bank. If we don't send 500,000 dollars within two hours, the bank is finished!"
The fountain pen in Old Henry's hand bent with a "snap."
He stood up abruptly, his gray eyes burning with fury.
"Argyle..."
He gritted his teeth, squeezing the name out from between them.
A bank wouldn't suffer a run for no reason, so he guessed who was behind it. At this critical juncture, only that New York nouveau riche had the motive and the means.
He was counterattacking!
"Father, what should we do?" Young Henry was also panicked.
"All our cash was prepared for the acquisition payments. If we use it to save the bank, the acquisitions will have to stop."
"If the bank fails, our credit will be completely ruined! Who would ever dare lend us money again?" Old Henry made an immediate decision.
"Stop the acquisition negotiations. Load all the money in the vault into wagons and send it to the bank. Send it over, even if it's every last one-cent coin!"
Old Henry turned around and took a deep breath, looking at the acquisition targets who were glancing at each other in confusion.
"Sorry, everyone, today's negotiations are canceled. Please leave."
They looked at each other but, having nothing to say, could only take their leave.
Watching their departing figures, Old Henry knew his Gunpowder Trust plan would be delayed by at least half a year.
Meanwhile, in the laboratory, Lammot Dupont looked at the machine that had stopped running due to a lack of funds, despair flashing in his eyes.
Then, he felt the business card in his pocket with the New York address.
The head of the family didn't take his words to heart at all.
Perhaps it was time to go see the outside world.
Long Island, Argyle Manor.
Although outside there was a bloody business war and scheming, within this territory surrounded by high walls and the sea, time seemed to stand still.
The May sunlight was warm and gentle, shining on the freshly laid emerald green lawn.
In the distance, the massive French-style castle was nearing completion, with workers decorating the exterior walls.
However, in the glass greenhouse on the east side of the castle, it was a different scene.
Catherine was not wearing the elaborate hoop skirts today; instead, she wore a simple linen gardening dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and thick gloves, crouching by the flower bed.
In her hand was a pair of scissors, trimming a newly planted white rose.
"Madam, is the soil here too wet?"
The old housekeeper Elena stood nearby, holding a small bucket, asking with concern.
"Just right, Elena."
Catherine wiped the fine sweat from her forehead, a satisfied smile appearing on her face.
"This 'Duke of York' white rose likes moisture. The automatic irrigation system designed by Mr. Hunt is excellent."
This greenhouse was a gift from Felix to her.
It was filled with rare flowers collected from around the world, but the most abundant were Catherine's favorite white roses.
"Mommy! Mommy!"
A childish voice came from the entrance.
Nearly two-year-old Finn Argyle was riding a Shetland Pony, only as tall as a large dog, wobbling over.
That was a Shetland Pony Felix specifically bought from the Shetland Islands in Scotland, gentle in temperament and just right for a child to ride.
Leading the horse was Felix.
He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing sturdy forearms. With one hand supporting his son's back and the other holding the reins, his eyes were full of affection.
"Slow down, Finn. Don't trample Mommy's flowers," Felix said with a smile beside him.
"Uh-huh, I know, Daddy. Look! I already know how to ride a horse!"
Finn excitedly waved a small riding crop, his face flushed.
Hearing the sound, Catherine also put down the scissors, took off her gloves, and walked over with a smile.
"Oh, look at this little knight from where."
She lifted her son off the horse and kissed his cheek.
"Sweetheart, you're so brave. You'll surely become an excellent noble in the future."
Finn puffed out his little chest, a serious expression appearing on his childish face.
It looked somewhat irresistibly amusing.
"Of course. Daddy said all the boys in our Argyle family must know how to ride horses. When I grow up, I'll ride big horses and go to the West to catch cattle myself!"
"Wow, that must be a very cool thing, but before that, you have to eat well to grow up..."
Catherine smiled and ruffled little Finn's hair, full of affection.
Felix walked over and put his arm around Catherine's waist, looking at this heartwarming scene.
"How is it, dear? Are you satisfied with this greenhouse?"
"Of course... I mean, it's too perfect, Felix."
Catherine leaned on his shoulder, a satisfied expression on her face.
"To me, this place is like heaven. Sometimes I really wish time could stop at this moment, without having to deal with those annoying matters outside."
Felix's eyes flickered slightly.
He looked at the vast sea outside the greenhouse, knowing in his heart how expensive this tranquility was. It was bought with countless money, schemes, and even blood.
Of course, he wouldn't say anything to spoil the mood here.
"As long as you like it," Felix said softly.
"I'll make this manor forever this safe, this beautiful. Anyone who tries to destroy it will pay the price."
"What are you talking about?"
Catherine sensed something unusual in his tone.
"Nothing."
Felix smiled, returning to his usual relaxed demeanor.
"Just thinking, when these roses bloom, perhaps we can hold a ball. Only invite friends, not those annoying business partners."
Just at this warm family moment, Frost appeared at the greenhouse entrance. He looked hesitant, as if not wanting to disturb this rare family time.
Felix glanced at him and immediately understood there might be something to report.
"Dear, go play with Finn for a while," Felix released Catherine and pointed at the pony.
Catherine also saw Frost and knew there must be something, so she took little Finn to play not far away.
Felix walked to the entrance.
"What is it?"
Felix's voice instantly turned serious, switching back to the emperor mode of the business empire.
"Sorry, Boss, there's news from Delaware," Frost lowered his voice.
"Flynn sent a telegram saying Hayes' run plan succeeded. Old DuPont drained the family's liquid funds to save the bank. That Gunpowder Trust acquisition deal has fallen through."
"Hmm, well done. What else?"
Felix did not show much surprise, as if it was all within expectations.
He also knew there must be more than just this matter, otherwise there would be no need to disturb him now.
Seeing this, Frost handed over a small note.
"Also, um... this is from Minister Flynn. That young man from the DuPont Family named Lamotte has bought a train ticket to Philadelphia for tonight. Flynn will receive him there."
Felix took the note, glanced at it, then casually tore it up and threw it into the nearby fertilizer bucket.
"I know. Tell Flynn to give Lamotte the best treatment. Make him feel that leaving the DuPont Family is the best decision of his life. In a few days, I'll meet this DuPont genius."
"Oh, right, also have Hamilton prepare the legal team. Once Lamotte is known to be on our side, the DuPont Family will surely go crazy. We'll drag them to death with patent lawsuits."
"Anything else?"
"No, Boss."
"Alright, then go send the telegram quickly and go home to rest directly," Felix waved his hand.
"Understood," Frost turned and left.
Felix stood at the greenhouse entrance, looking back.
Under the sunlight, Catherine was holding her son, laughing among the flowers. The laughter was clear and pleasant, like wind chimes.
This was the reason he fought.
To protect this rose, he didn't mind turning the outside world into a thorny jungle.