A little farther on stood the turnstiles. Beyond them, the wall was painted green and decorated with portraits of all the Dukes of Westminster. They were arranged from right to left, from the first duke to the sixth, whose portrait hung closest to the elevator.
The security guard and the secretary immediately recognized the most important person in the company. Both rose to their feet and stood at attention. The brunette's lips curved into a broad, welcoming smile.
"Mr. Grosvenor, we're glad to see you," she said.
"Good morning," Gerald replied, giving the staff a brief, restrained nod.
The security guard promptly opened both turnstiles for the duke and the boy.
Richie had expected that the adults would naturally have questions about him. And they certainly did—but neither the security guard nor the secretary dared to voice their thoughts. Who were they, after all, compared to Gerald Grosvenor, to say anything to him that wasn't strictly relevant?! That was the point! They were birds of different feathers.
Besides, what could a simple security guard or secretary know about Richie? Absolutely nothing. The boy was not a public figure, and neither the general public nor ordinary employees of the Grosvenor Group knew anything about him. Gerald rarely spoke about his family; on the contrary, he did everything possible to keep information about his children strictly confidential.
Richie and his father took the elevator to the fourth floor. As they walked down the corridor, everyone paused in their work and politely greeted the boss. The looks cast by the office staff carried a single unspoken question: Who is this boy?
Soon, father and son were seated in a spacious, luxuriously furnished office. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, with an imposing executive chair behind it. For visitors, there was a leather sofa and a pair of armchairs positioned opposite the desk.
Then everything began to spin like a carousel. It was far too much to process in a single day. Gerald summoned the head of human resources, nodded toward Richie, and "politely asked":
"Stephen, hire the boy as a courier for the building."
Naturally, there were no objections from the subordinate—a man with chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a thin face, who appeared to be about forty and wore a black suit. He simply turned to the boy and asked courteously:
"What is your first and last name, young man? Do you have any documents for registration?"
"Richard Grosvenor, sir," the transmigrator replied politely. "I don't have any documents with me, but they can be brought if necessary."
The head of personnel seemed to freeze in place. His eyes bulged like those of a toad, nearly popping out of their sockets. He stiffened as if impaled on a stake, swallowed hard, and said in a slightly trembling voice:
"U-m-m-m… No, Master Richard…" He glanced at Gerald. "No documents are needed, are they, sir?"
"No, no," replied the sixth Duke of Westminster, a faintly cheerful note in his voice. "Stephen," he said to the head of personnel, "do everything as usual. The documents will be brought to you shortly."
"What…" Stephen asked nervously. "And should I give the new employee a questionnaire to fill out?"
"Of course, Stephen," Gerald nodded. "Everything should be done as usual. No special treatment for the new courier."
"Um…" Stephen froze as though struck by the blue screen of a not-yet-released operating system. "No special treatment, sir! When will the young man start work?"
"Today," Gerald replied.
"Uh-huh, uh-huh," Stephen nodded like a bobblehead. "But, sir," he added carefully, addressing his boss, "according to the law, we must obtain permission from the local authorities to hire a minor."
"We have it, Stephen," Gerald said calmly.
"And also, sir," the personnel manager continued with growing confidence, "a young man of such age cannot work more than twenty-five hours a week, or more than two hours on a school day. And after four hours of work, he must take a one-hour break."
"Stephen, don't worry about school," Gerald said. "Richie recently finished junior school and is currently on a long vacation before starting high school. And besides," he added dryly, "who among us works in the Personnel Department? Steve, don't try to muddle me."
"You know labor laws perfectly, so arrange the new courier's schedule properly. I suppose four hours a day, from eight until noon, five days a week, the young man can manage. Isn't that so?" He turned his gaze to his son.
"No problem!" the boy flashed a bright, white-toothed smile at the adults. "Sir," he said to Stephen, "will you show me around and get me up to speed?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Stephen agreed immediately. "May we go, sir?" he asked the elder Grosvenor.
"Of course."
With an imperious wave of his right hand, Gerald dismissed Stephen and Richard.
Thus began the transmigrator's working days. It was amusing to think that a small child—the son of a billionaire—was working part-time as a courier. If you told anyone, they wouldn't believe it.
(End of Chapter)
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