Arthur’s question hung in the air of the small café, sharp and precise.
"Which one of them has the most to prove?"
Michael looked down at the four crests on the smartphone screen.
Each represented a story, a community, a collection of young n with dreams of their own.
He was about to gamble his entire future on one of these teams.
The weight of that choice settled on his shoulders, heavy and real.
"I need so ti," Michael said finally, pushing the phone back across the table to Arthur.
"Not long. A few days. This has to be the right call."
He expected a flicker of impatience from Arthur, a push to move faster.
Instead, the older man simply gave a slow, understanding nod.
"Good," Arthur said. "An impulsive decision is a bad decision. Take the ti. While you’re deliberating, I’ll set the wheels in motion to liquidate your assets. When you’ve chosen your target, the funds need to be ready. No delays."
"Done," Michael agreed, a sense of relief mixing with the excitent. He stood up, feeling a strange new energy coursing through him.
"I’ll call you."
Leaving the café, Michael didn’t head back to his sleek, minimalist apartnt in the city.
He drove the Lamborghini to a high-end dealership, the sa one where he’d picked it up with a triumphant grin six months ago.
He walked into the showroom, tossed the keys onto the manager’s desk, and said, "The lease is in my na. I want out. Today."
An hour later, he walked out of the dealership and into a much more modest, practical-looking showroom next door. He paid cash for a simple, reliable, second-hand Audi.
It was still a nice car, but it was gray, anonymous, and scread "sensible," not "playboy." It felt right.
Next was the apartnt. He didn’t even go back. He called the building’s concierge, told them he was moving out, and that a man nad Arthur Milton would be handling the sale of the property and its contents.
He asked the concierge to pack a single suitcase with so clothes, his laptop, and a few personal items and have it sent to a small, rented flat he’d found online—a one-bedroom place above a bakery that slled perpetually of yeast and sugar.
The purge had begun. It felt liberating.
Every lavish thing he shed was a chain breaking, freeing him from the boy he used to be.
But there was a problem. The watches, the signed jerseys, the small collection of modern art his mother had given him—these things needed to be sold quickly, but also smartly. Arthur’s contacts were for big-money deals and corporate espionage.
This required a different kind of specialist.
He scrolled through his phone, bypassing Leo’s na. Leo would turn this into a three-day party. He needed efficiency.
He stopped on a na: Julian "Jules" Vance.
Jules wasn’t an heir like Michael or a joker like Leo. Jules was a hustler
. His family had old money, but they’d lost most of it, and Jules had spent his life navigating the world of the wealthy as an insider-outsider.
He knew how to get things, how to sell things, and most importantly, he knew people.
"Mikey!" Jules answered, his voice a smooth, confident baritone. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t tell you’re calling to gloat about Northwood’s spectacular implosion."
"The opposite," Michael said, getting straight to the point. "I need your help. I’m selling everything. All of it. And I need to do it fast."
There was a mont of stunned silence on the other end of the line. "...Everything? As in, the Patek on your wrist and the Warhol print in your hallway everything?"
"Everything," Michael confird.
"Are you in trouble?" The concern in Jules’ voice was genuine.
"No. I’m starting a business. I need capital. Your cut is five percent of whatever you can get for ."
That was the language Jules understood best. "Say no more," Jules said, his voice instantly shifting from concerned friend to sharp-edged professional. "I know a guy. He’s the best. He’s discreet, he’s fast, and he pays in cash. But he’s... particular. et at ’The Alchemist’s Vault’ in an hour. And bring your wares."
The Alchemist’s Vault wasn’t a bank or a shop. It was a private club in a discreet, unmarked townhouse in Mayfair. Inside, it looked like a cross between a billionaire’s study and a museum’s storage room.
Glass cases held vintage wine, rare cigars, and antique clocks. The air slled of cedarwood and old money.
Jules was waiting for him, looking perfectly at ho in a tailored suit.
With him was a man who seed to be his complete opposite.
He was short, impeccably dressed in a velvet jacket, with round spectacles perched on his nose and a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looked like a high-fashion owl.
"Michael, this is Silas," Jules said. "Silas, my friend Michael Sterling. He has so items he wishes to part with."
"A pleasure," Silas said, his voice surprisingly deep. He gave Michael a quick, appraising glance that seed to calculate his net worth in a single second. "Julian tells you’re in a hurry. Haste often makes waste, Mr. Sterling. But it can also create opportunity."
Michael didn’t waste ti with small talk.
He opened a reinforced briefcase he’d brought from his bank vault and laid out his six most valuable watches on the polished mahogany table.
The 1968 Rolex Daytona was front and center.
Silas’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
He produced a jeweler’s loupe from his jacket pocket and examined each watch with the reverence of a brain surgeon.
He didn’t speak for five full minutes, just humd softly to himself.
"Exquisite," he finally murmured, putting the loupe away. "A fine collection. Acquired with taste." He then looked at Michael. "And the other items?"
Michael showed him photos on his laptop: the small but valuable art prints, the mint-condition rookie jersey signed by a footballing legend, and a few other high-value collectibles. Silas studied each image intently.
"A diverse portfolio," Silas noted. "And you wish to liquidate it all. One transaction."
"That’s the idea," Michael said, his heart starting to beat a little faster. This was the mont of truth.
Silas steepled his fingers, his owlish eyes boring into Michael. "The challenge, you see, is not the value of the items. That is well-established. The challenge is the speed. An imdiate, all-inclusive sale requires a certain... discount. For the convenience. For the risk I assu."
"I understand," Michael said calmly. "What’s your offer?"
Silas leaned back. "I will handle the transfer of ownership for your apartnt and its contents. I will take the collectibles, the art, and the watches. My network is vast; they will find new hos by dawn. For everything, as a single package deal, I can have a wire transfer initiated within the next ten minutes."
He paused, letting the silence hang in the air.
"My offer is fourteen million pounds."
Michael’s stomach tightened. It was a million short of Arthur’s estimate.
A million pounds was a star player’s signing bonus.
It was a year’s operating budget for a youth academy.
Jules shot Michael a look, a subtle shake of his head that said, ’Don’t take the first offer.’
But Michael rembered what Silas had said.
Haste can create opportunity.
Speed was more important than that final million.
He needed to be ready to strike the mont he chose his club.
"Fifteen," Michael countered, his voice steady. "Not a penny less. That’s the number I need. Fifteen million, and the deal is done right now."
He held Silas’s gaze, refusing to blink. This wasn’t a ga. This was the foundation of his empire.
Silas stared at him for a long, silent mont.
Then, a slow smile spread across his face. He extended a hand across the table.
"Mr. Sterling," he said, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "I do so love a man who knows what he wants. You have a deal."
As they shook hands, Michael felt a vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his phone.
It was a banking alert. A wire transfer had just been completed.
His account balance now read: £15,000,000.
He walked out of The Alchemist’s Vault feeling ten pounds lighter.
He was no longer Michael Sterling, the heir.
He was just Michael.
A man with a rented flat, a used car, and a dream funded by the ghosts of his forr life.
And he had never felt richer.
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