March 13, 1909
If the previous day was an explosion, the morning after was the shockwave. Every newspaper in the Western world—from the London Times to the San Francisco Chronicle—bore a variation of the same staggering headline: THE BILLION-DOLLAR FAMILY.
In the quiet of the Kingston library, Michael sat with his father, John, and his dad, George, surrounded by a mountain of morning editions. The New York World had gone so far as to print a graphical representation of the Kingston fortune compared to the United States Treasury. The consensus was unanimous: the Kingstons were now the wealthiest family in American history, eclipsing the Rockefellers and the Morgans in liquid transparency.
"The European papers are making comparisons to the Rothschilds," George said, tapping a translated report from Paris. "They're calling us the 'Rothschilds of the West,' Michael."
Michael sipped his tea, his expression thoughtful. "It's a flawed comparison, Dad. The Rothschilds have been the gold standard of wealth for a century, but their power is diluted. They are spread across five branches in London, Paris, Vienna, Naples, and Frankfurt. Their wealth is a vast, decentralized web. We are a single, unified block. What we hold, we hold together, under one name and one direction."
While the Rothschilds' total family wealth was rumored to be higher in aggregate across all their European interests, no single branch or individual within that family possessed the concentrated, industrial liquid power now held by the Kingstons.
John, looking over a report from the Department of Commerce, leaned back in his chair. " Michael, do you realize what this means? The United States GDP for 1908 was approximately thirty billion dollars. Our personal family net worth of $1.642 Billion (equivalent to $62.4 Billion in 2025) represents more than five percent of the entire nation's Gross Domestic Product."
"Five percent," George whispered, the weight of the math sinking in. "One family is equivalent to five percent of the output of eighty-eight million people."
"And that is only the beginning," Michael reminded them. "The valuations we saw yesterday were based on the market's first reaction, but the true appreciation is yet to come. As we demonstrate consistent profitability and distribute healthy dividends, those share prices will climb even higher. "
Mary entered the room, holding a telegram from the manager of the New York branch. "Michael, the reports from the exchanges are coming in. It seems your 'army of shareholders' is already beginning to shift. Nearly sixty percent of the people who bought shares at forty dollars yesterday turned around and sold them to brokers for sixty or seventy before the closing bell."
George grunted. "They didn't want to own the company; they wanted to make a quick buck."
"I expected that, Dad," Michael said calmly. "The flippers are inevitable. But look at the statistics. Yesterday, more than two million ordinary Americans—clerks, farmers, and factory hands—bought at least one share. That is a miracle in itself. In an age where the stock market is seen as a playground for the 'Money Trust,' we brought the common man to the table."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city. "Even with the flippers, seven hundred thousand people still hold their shares this morning. Seven hundred thousand families now have a reason to read the financial pages. They are beginning to learn how money actually works—how capital flows, how interest compounds, and how a market reacts to news."
John looked at his son with a mixture of curiosity and realization. "You're trying to educate them."
"I am," Michael admitted. "The American people are industrially brilliant but financially illiterate. They trust the banks blindly, or they fear them entirely. If they don't learn the mechanics of the market now, they will be slaughtered when the next great cycle turns. By giving them a stake in our success, I'm giving them a reason to pay attention. If they understand the market today, they might have a chance of surviving the disasters that the 'vultures' will inevitably brew tomorrow."
By creating a class of educated, small-scale investors, he was building an army of informed citizens rather than just desperate savers.
"We gave them our word that the price would be forty dollars," Michael said, turning back to his family. "And because we kept that word while every other banker tried to gouge them, we have earned their attention. Now, we use that attention to build something more permanent than just wealth."
John stood up, adjusting his coat. He had a train to catch for Washington. "Be careful, Michael. You've given them a taste of what it is to make easy money. Now they will try to do it themselves, and they will burn their hands."
Michael met his father's gaze, his eyes sharp and unwavering. "Better they burn a finger today on a forty-dollar share, Father, than lose their entire lives in future when the real fire starts. I'm not just giving them a taste of profit; I'm giving them a vaccine against greed. Those who learn the pain of the market now, while the stakes are small, are the ones who will survive. As for the rest... as long as we are the ones holding the table, it won't tilt."
*******
March 15, 1909
John and Mary moved to Washington D.C., while George and Elizabeth remained in New York. Michael, however, was bound for Boston to finish his final two months at Harvard.
He traveled in a private "Palace Car" hitched to the Yankee Clipper. The carriage was a masterclass in Edwardian luxury—hand-rubbed walnut, velvet drapes, and a private chef. After a lunch of roasted duck, Michael leaned back and lit a rare cigarette. Through the smoke, he watched the world blur past, knowing his life had fundamentally changed.
Anonymity was gone. Before the companies went public, he was just a rich man. Now, with a net worth that had climbed to $1.7 billion, "rich" was no longer the right word. Their family held the weight of nearly six percent of the American economy, a concentration of power so singular it placed them at the absolute zenith of the upper class—the rare, fractional elite within the one percent.
Michael observed a shield rising between him and the world—a thick, invisible glass wall. He recognized it as a permanent reality. For that barrier to dissolve, the world would have to look past the dollar signs and see the man, but the public was no longer capable of such a perspective. Michael felt no sting in this isolation; he had no wish to be their friend, and he found their reverence far more useful than their camaraderie.
To be frank, Michael didn't like most people. The public might have imagined him as a great lover of humanity, but they were wrong. He didn't love the "herd." He simply could not stand the sight of pain and despair, and he wanted to remove it. He held no illusions that a man helped today would be a good man tomorrow. He knew that most people were inherently selfish, ready to turn the moment an opportunity arose.
He didn't resent this selfishness as long as it remained under control. In his previous life, he had seen too much of the ugliness of human nature to trust the masses. He hated the herd mentality—the dangerous idea that the majority is always right, even when it is wrong.
However, he had also seen rare flashes of true nobility, sacrifice, and goodness. That was why he was doing all of this. He had built this empire and accumulated this power so that those few individuals with good hearts—those capable of true sacrifice—would not have to suffer in a world driven by the greedy. Even if the chance to protect them was slim, it was the only goal that gave his empire a sense of meaning.
As he looked toward the western horizon, Michael knew he was taking a break from the academic world. In two months, he would take his undergraduate degree and move to Los Angeles. There was another exciting challenge waiting for him on the west coast—one that required his undivided attention. Once the foundations in California were settled and the new frontier was secure, he would decide whether to return for his graduate studies.
The train hissed to a final, heavy stop at South Station. As the steam cleared, Michael saw a second detail of four bodyguards from the Boston branch of Kingston Security waiting on the platform, their eyes scanning the crowd with professional coldness. They joined the four men who had traveled with him, forming a tight, impenetrable corridor as he stepped onto the pavement.
Before he could reach the exit, a soft, feminine figure broke through the crowd's reverent silence. It was Evelyn Richards. She simply moved into his space and wrapped her arms around him. Michael caught her, pulling her close as they shared a brief, lingering kiss.
"You look beautiful, darling," Michael said, looking down at her.
Evelyn stepped back, a playful spark in her eyes. "Only beautiful? I was aiming for better than that," she joked, a smile tugging at her lips. "Perhaps I should be curtsying?" she added, referencing the headlines in the morning editions that had already begun labeling the Kingston family as the 'New Royalty of America.'
Michael smiled, feeling a rare moment of genuine warmth. "I have a lot to tell you. Let's go to my place."
"My evening is completely clear," she replied, her tone softening as she took his arm.
Michael nodded to the bodyguards, gesturing for them to handle the luggage. He led her to the curb where a new Cadillac sat waiting—a masterpiece of luxury production from Kingston Motors, its black paint polished to a mirror shine.
As they sat in the plush leather interior of the car, Michael found himself observing her. Through his experience and his gift, he could see the truth in her. She wasn't a saint; she wasn't one of those entirely selfless people who sacrificed themselves until they had nothing left. She had the right amount of selfishness—the kind that allowed her to thrive—but she possessed a heart that refused to sacrifice others for her own sake. She helped people quietly, and more importantly, she didn't seem to care about his new, astronomical status. To her, he was still just Michael. She was exactly the type of person he was building this empire to protect.
Feeling his gaze, Evelyn turned to him. "What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was just thinking," Michael said, his voice quiet. "I was thinking about why I haven't fallen 'in love' with you."
Evelyn smiled, a calm and knowing expression. "You don't have to be 'in love' with me, Michael, as long as you just love me. I'm not 'in love' with you either, but I love you anyway."
Michael let out a low laugh, the tension of the week finally beginning to bleed away. "I do, my darling. I love you."
He reached for the ignition, the powerful engine of the Cadillac purring to life as they pulled away from the station.