Stan let the conversation with Zack die a natural death and turned his attention to the ntal checklist that had been quietly running in the background of his mind all morning.
Peak University had five recognized campus beauties. He’d already established connections with four of them, Sarah, Maya, Xenia, and now Sophie. Each binding had co with rewards, each relationship had opened new rebate channels, and each favorability counter was climbing at its own particular pace.
One remained.
"Do you know where Vivian Reeves is?" Stan asked, keeping his tone casual.
Zack’s head snapped toward him so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t crack.
"Vivian Reeves?" He stared at Stan with the expression of a man watching soone reach for a live electrical wire. "Stan, you’ve just conquered Sophie Youngs. The ink isn’t even dry. And now you want to go after Vivian Reeves?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Forget it. Seriously. Vivian Reeves is on a completely different level. She’s the richest second-generation student at Peak University, and I don’t an rich like Kyle Jennings or Felix Lawn. I an rich rich. Old money. Bottomless money. The kind of wealth where she’s never looked at the price of anything in her entire life because the number has literally never mattered."
Zack leaned closer, lowering his voice as if Vivian might overhear from across campus.
"She doesn’t associate with ordinary people, Stan. She barely associates with wealthy people. There’s maybe five students on this entire campus she’s spoken more than three sentences to. You’d have better odds getting a eting with the president."
"Where is she?" Stan repeated.
Zack sighed. "She rarely cos to campus. Her schedule’s unpredictable. Sotis she shows up for a week straight, sotis she disappears for a month. Nobody knows where she goes or what she does. She’s basically a ghost with a credit card."
"Alright."
Stan filed the information away and moved on. The opportunity would present itself eventually. It always did.
... In the anti, there were more practical matters to address.
Stan inford Zack that afternoon that he was moving out of the dormitory.
Zack took the news with the quiet devastation of a man losing his best friend to adulthood.
"You’re leaving? Why? Is it the mattress? I told you the mattress was terrible. I’ll buy you a new mattress,"
"It’s not the mattress, Zack."
"Is it my snoring? I can get those nose strips,"
"It’s not your snoring."
It was, in truth, a simple calculation. Stan was sitting on a fortune that would have made most small nations uncomfortable, and he was still sleeping on a dorm-issued twin bed in a room that slled faintly of instant noodles.
The optics were becoming difficult to maintain, and more practically, he needed a space that matched the life he was actually living, a place with a proper address, a secure garage, and enough square footage that he didn’t have to hide shopping bags full of designer clothes under his bed.
He called Grayson Davies that evening.
"I’m looking for an apartnt in Inksea. Sothing comfortable. Good location, good security, private parking."
Grayson, ever eager to stay in the good graces of the Wanhai Group’s largest individual shareholder, didn’t hesitate.
"I know just the place. I’ll have the details sent to you within the hour."
By evening, the paperwork was signed. The apartnt was exactly what Stan had wanted, clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen he’d probably never use, and a private garage with space for multiple vehicles.
Which brought him to the next item on the list.
A car.
Stan Harrison had always been a car fanatic. It wasn’t sothing most people would have guessed about him, the bicycle, the taxis, the general air of quiet indifference toward material possessions didn’t exactly advertise the fact that he’d spent half his teenage years morizing engine specifications and watching supercar reviews until three in the morning.
But the passion was there. It had always been there. It had simply been locked behind the iron door of I can’t afford this, and now that door had been blown off its hinges by a bank balance with nine figures in it.
He wanted a Lamborghini.
Specifically, he wanted a limited-edition Huracán from Imperium Motors, a vehicle so exclusive that the waiting list was asured in years, not months. Under normal circumstances, a college student walking into a dealership and requesting one would have been politely laughed out of the showroom.
Under these circumstances, Stan picked up his phone, called Grayson, and said, "There’s a car I want. Imperium Motors. It’s a Wanhai Group subsidiary, isn’t it?"
"It is," Grayson confird.
"Good. Let the manager know I’m coming."
"Consider it done."
He set out for the dealership the next morning.
The weather had been clear and warm when he’d left the apartnt, the kind of late-spring sunshine that made the whole city look freshly washed. By the ti he’d walked three blocks, the sky had darkened with the sudden, theatrical nace of a stage curtain dropping. The clouds rolled in so fast it was almost comical, piling up in thick gray walls that swallowed the sun in a matter of minutes.
Then the rain hit.
Not a drizzle. Not a shower. A downpour, the kind that turned streets into rivers and made pedestrians sprint for cover like startled animals. Lightning cracked across the sky in jagged white branches. Thunder followed half a second later, deep enough to rattle windows. The wind drove the rain sideways, stinging exposed skin like handfuls of thrown gravel.
Stan ducked under the nearest awning, bought an umbrella from a convenience store, and stepped back out into the storm. The dealership was only a few more blocks. He’d survive.
His stomach, however, had other priorities. The barbecue skewer stand near the campus gate was calling to him with the quiet authority of a lifelong craving. He could grab a few sticks, wait out the worst of the rain under the vendor’s tarp, and
A roar split the air behind him.
Not thunder but a car engine.
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