Success is the only apology that counts in this family.
Jason walked up the stone steps of the General Education Board's headquarters. He carried no briefcase, no files. Just a single, thin envelope in his breast pocket.
He found John D. Rockefeller Jr. in his office, staring out the window at the city that was currently celebrating the death of his father's monopoly. Junior turned as Jason entered. His face was a mask of conflict—relief at the family's survival warring with his lingering distrust of the methods used.
"It's done, then," Junior said quietly. "The monster is slain."
"The monster has evolved," Jason corrected, walking to the desk. "And it is hungrier than ever."
He pulled the envelope from his pocket and slid it across the polished wood.
Junior looked at it suspiciously. He opened it. Inside was a single check.
He stared at the numbers. His eyes widened.
Five million dollars.
It was signed by Jason Prentice, drawn on the account of the newly formed Standard Oil of New Jersey.
"For the Foundation," Jason said smoothly. "A donation from the new companies. To ensure your good works can continue without interruption."
Junior looked up, his face pale. He knew what this was. It was hush money. It was a peace offering. It was a brutal reminder of where the money came from—the money that built his churches, funded his schools, and polished his halo.
He looked at the check, then at Jason. He wanted to refuse. His principles screamed at him to tear it up.
But five million dollars could save a lot of souls.
"Thank you, Ezra," Junior said, his voice stiff and formal. He placed the check in his drawer, burying it. "The Lord provides."
"He certainly does," Jason said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
He turned and walked out. As he passed through the hallway, he saw Judge Calloway emerging from the Treasurer's office. The old man caught Jason's eye and gave a subtle, deferential nod.
Jason didn't stop. He didn't need to. Junior was neutralized. The Foundation was under control. He had bought the moral high ground, and he had the receipt in his pocket.
That night, the celebration was quiet.
There was no gala, no ballroom filled with sycophants. Just Jason and Alta, standing on the high balcony of their Fifth Avenue mansion, the cold wind whipping around them.
Below them, New York City glittered like a bed of diamonds. The electric lights—powered by coal, soon to be powered by oil—stretched out to the horizon.
Alta held a glass of rare vintage wine. She took a sip, her eyes fixed on the city.
"You knew," she said.
She didn't turn to look at him.
"You knew exactly what would happen. In Washington. In the boardroom. With the stock price. You predicted it all with a precision that is... unnatural."
She turned then, her gaze searching his face. She wasn't accusing him. She was looking at him with a new kind of awe, mixed with a flicker of fear.
Jason leaned against the stone railing. He looked out at the world he had conquered.
"I understand patterns, Alta," he said. "History is just a pattern that repeats. If you know the tune, you can hum the next bar before the orchestra plays it."
He didn't tell her about the future. He didn't tell her about the dying man in 2024, the failed hedge fund, the leap from the window. He didn't need to. She accepted his genius because it had made them kings.
"What now?" Alta asked. "We have everything. More money than God. The family is secure. The enemies are broken."
Jason shook his head slowly.
"We have money," he said. "Money is just fuel. Now... we build the world."
Alta stepped closer. She rested her head on his shoulder. It was the most intimate gesture they had ever shared, far more real than any kiss. It was a partnership forged in the fire of ambition.
"Then let's build it," she whispered.
Later, long after Alta had gone to sleep, Jason sat alone in his study.
The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of the banker's lamp on his desk. He stood before the large map on the wall.
It had changed.
The map of New York was gone. The map of the United States was gone. In their place hung a massive, detailed map of the world.
Jason picked up a small pin with a red flag.
He walked to the map. His finger traced the coastline of Africa, moved east, and settled on a desolate, empty patch of desert in the Middle East. A place currently ruled by warring tribes, ignored by the great powers.
Saudi Arabia.
He pushed the pin into the map.
He picked up another pin. He placed it on a dusty field in Texas. Spindletop.
He placed another on a small bicycle shop in Ohio. The Wright Brothers.
He walked back to his desk. A stack of files lay there, waiting.
He picked up the first one. It was marked Geological Surveys. He knew where the oil was. He knew where the gold was. He knew where the uranium was.
He picked up the second file. It was a list of political dissidents in Europe. He knew who would start the Great War. He knew who would rise from the ashes.
He picked up the third file. It was a list of scientific journals.
He walked to the mirror in the corner of the room. He looked at his reflection.
The weak chin of Ezra Prentice seemed firmer now. The tired eyes were gone, replaced by the burning, relentless gaze of Jason Underwood. But even Jason was fading. He was becoming something else. Something new.
He was no longer a man playing a game. He was the architect of the twentieth century.
He picked up the telephone. He dialed a number in Berlin.
"Get me the file on a patent clerk in Switzerland," Jason said into the receiver. "His name is Einstein. I want to fund his research. All of it."
He hung up the phone.
He looked at the map of the world one last time. He smiled.
The game was just beginning.