The morning was crisp, carrying the metallic scent of early winter over Manhattan. The Rolls-Royce, driven by Sarah, glided silently from the polished sanctuary of the penthouse and merged smoothly into the morning traffic. Winsten sat in the back, running a thumb along the cool, polished leather of the Phantom's trim, feeling the physical weight of his recklessness from the night before.
Rose sat beside him, dressed in a sharp, dove-gray suit, calmly reviewing a digital contract on her tablet. The third occupant was a man Winsten knew only as Mr. Hayes, a lawyer provided by the AI, whose entire existence seemed to be woven from bespoke Savile Row wool and an encyclopedic knowledge of international property law. Mr. Hayes, mid-forties with the weary precision of a surgeon, was studying a sheaf of papers with focused disinterest.
Their destination was the office of Aethelred Property Group, a successful but far from ultra-exclusive real estate firm in Midtown—precisely the sort of establishment that would not immediately recognize the name Winsten Stone or his terrifying net worth.
The office itself was organized, clean, and professional, bathed in the neutral, inoffensive lighting common to businesses that traded in large sums without seeking celebrity.
"We are precisely one minute ahead of our 9:15 appointment, Mr. Stone," Rose informed him quietly as they entered the reception area.
Winsten nodded. They approached the minimalist reception desk, and Rose stated their names. The receptionist checked a tablet, offered a polite but standard smile, and told them to have a seat.
Ten minutes passed.
For Rose and Mr. Hayes, the wait was a minor, contained offense. They were accustomed to a world where their time, and by extension Winsten's, was treated as currency. Mr. Hayes shifted minutely in his chair, a silent commentary on the inefficiency. But Winsten, seated with the patience of a man who no longer had to measure his time against dollars earned, simply watched. This ordinary waiting room was a novelty. He wanted to see how the other half—the non-AI-controlled half—lived.
Finally, a young man emerged, offering an apologetic, genuine smile.
"Hello, I'm Ryan. My apologies for the slight delay. Right this way to my office."
Ryan was perhaps twenty-five, earnest, with neatly combed hair and a nervous energy suggesting he was keen to impress but not yet hardened by the job. He was, Winsten realized, exactly the kind of ambitious, low-level employee the AI and Vance Corporation used as fuel.
Once inside the small, functional office, Ryan began, blissfully unaware of the financial firepower sitting across from him. He assumed Rose, given her elegance, was the client's wife, and Mr. Hayes, with his quiet presence, was a contributing relative, perhaps an uncle helping finance the first big purchase.
"Again, so sorry about the wait," Ryan said, setting a book of listings on the table. "You said you're looking to transition from an apartment to a house? That's correct, right?"
"Yes, both correct," Winsten confirmed.
Ryan leaned forward conspiratorially. "Fantastic! Well, we have some wonderful options. What are we looking at—small family homes? I know house prices are crazy, trust me, I understand. We have great mortgage plans that really help spread the cost."
He pushed the book of listings toward Winsten. They were all small, tidy suburban houses, priced modestly between $800,000 and $1.2 million.
Rose, who had quickly assessed the agent's assumptions, struggled to keep her expression neutral. She watched Winsten, knowing the game was afoot.
Winsten flipped slowly through the pages, his hand movements exaggerated. He was enjoying the absurdity of the moment, the contrast between the small, mortgaged dream presented by Ryan and the reality of his sixty-four million dollar net worth. He set the book down with a soft, dismissive thud.
Ryan blinked. "So? Any you like? We can schedule a few viewings this afternoon."
Ryan immediately assumed the price was the issue, a familiar pattern. He started to launch into the benefits of refinancing.
Winsten cut him off with a weary sigh. "No. These houses are terrible. I require something at a much higher valuation."
Ryan paused, taking a beat to process the word "terrible." He stayed professional, offering another, thicker binder. "Certainly, sir. We do have our premium collection. Perhaps something in the $2 million to $4 million range?"
Winsten took the book, his indifference still palpable. He flipped through it quickly and pushed it back across the desk. "No. I need to see higher-priced inventory."
Ryan's polite façade flickered. He thought, Two to four million is high, maybe he's a wealthy developer. But five months into this job, he was still scraping by, and he couldn't afford to risk a client or be disrespectful, even if he suspected Winsten was wasting his time. He kept his tone even.
"I… I'll certainly check our ultra-luxury private listings, sir. But could you tell me what sort of price point you're expecting? And the style you prefer?"
Winsten leaned back, the leather of his tailored suit creasing slightly. Rose noted the change in him over the last five months: less desperation, replaced by a cold, almost cruel detachment when dealing with strangers. The money had given him not happiness, but a dangerous kind of boredom.
"I expect a secluded mansion," Winsten stated. "A lot of land and grass. Gates. Serious privacy."
Ryan looked at Winsten, mentally calculating the odds that this man—who walked in asking about $800,000 houses before demanding privacy and a compound—was either truly wealthy or merely a troll. Trolling seemed the higher possibility.
Gritting his teeth, Ryan turned to his computer and accessed the exclusive, unlisted portfolio he rarely touched. He showed Winsten a few dense, high-rise properties in New York, which Winsten declined. Ryan then shifted the search to New Jersey, hoping distance might help.
Winsten watched the screen, scrolling through images of palatial estates. Then, his finger stabbed the screen, freezing the image on a sprawling, classically designed estate surrounded by mature trees and a high stone wall.
"Stop. That one," Winsten said.
Ryan, inwardly sighing at the inevitable rejection, played along. "Ah, yes. Beautiful home, sir. Classic Tudor style. You like this one?" he asked, unable to keep the skepticism entirely out of his voice.
"Yeah," Winsten confirmed, his expression unreadable.
Ryan read the details on his screen, his voice catching slightly. "That's in Saddle River, New Jersey. It sits on eight acres. The price is… twenty-one million dollars," he announced, waiting for the predictable gasp of shock or the rushed apology for wasting his time. He glanced at Rose, expecting a sympathetic shake of the head.
Rose, however, simply looked at the agent and shook her head with a look that said, You have no idea who you're dealing with. She gave Ryan credit for his extreme patience, realizing Winsten was merely indulging a dark sense of humor, playing with a man whose entire worldview was defined by the difference between $800,000 and $21 million.
Winsten broke the silence, his tone casual, as if discussing the price of coffee.
"I see. Tell the owner I'll pay eighteen million. Take it or leave it."
Ryan froze, his mouth slightly open. He stared at Winsten, then at the image of the mansion, then at Mr. Hayes, the assumed relative.
"Huh?" Ryan managed.
"I said I'll offer eighteen million. I'll wire the funds today. Tell the owner the offer expires today."
Ryan snapped out of his shock. This was too big to ignore. "Sir, with all respect, if this is a serious offer, I need to verify funds. Can you provide your bank's phone number for verification?"
Winsten nodded to Rose, who immediately handed Ryan a card.
Ryan immediately called the number for the Obsidian Trust. He spent several minutes on hold, then spoke to a verification specialist, his voice dropping to a whisper as he confirmed Winsten Stone's identity and, crucially, the budget he was operating with.
When he hung up, Ryan's face was pale. He had been sitting here, suggesting mortgage plans and low-budget houses, to a man who, minutes ago, had just verified he had the liquid capital to spend $18 million on an impulse buy. It defied all logic. Why had no one verified this man when Rose made the appointment?
Ryan immediately called the owner of the Saddle River property. The owner, who had been sitting on the $21 million listing for nearly two years, accepted the $18 million offer immediately.
Mr. Hayes, the lawyer, now stepped in, finally acknowledged by Ryan, who sheepishly apologized for his previous assumptions. Hayes went over the title and purchase agreements with surgical efficiency. Winsten signed the contracts. In the space of forty-five minutes, $18 million was transferred.
Ryan, still shell-shocked but finding his professional footing, managed to say, "Excellent. The sale is officially pending. It will take a couple of days to finalize the closing details, but I will notify you personally the moment you can take possession of the Saddle River property, Mr. Stone."
Winsten stood up, indicating their departure.
Ryan slumped back into his chair, breathing heavily. He was the new guy. He had just sold the most expensive house in the company's history—an $18 million mansion. The commission alone would make him a legend overnight. The world was truly crazy; some random wealthy guy just walked in and spent $18 million like it was nothing.
Winsten, Rose, and Mr. Hayes left the building and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk.
Just as Winsten reached the curb where the Rolls-Royce was pulling up, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID: Gwen.
He picked up immediately. "Yeah, what's up, Gwen?"
"Winston, we need to meet today, just us. We need to talk immediately," Gwen said, her voice tight, strained by an anxiety Winsten instantly recognized.
Winsten's easy humor vanished, replaced by the instinct to protect. "Sounds good. I'll choose a private restaurant. Give me an hour."
"It's important," Gwen finished, her voice a sharp warning. She hung up abruptly.
Winsten stared at the phone. He knew the jewelry was the fuse, and the explosion of their friendship was coming.