The morning started with Nolan hunched over his laptop, fingers dancing across the keys with quiet intensity. The screen displayed a color-coded spreadsheet tracking every wealthy guest he or Kieran had spoken to at the gala. Notes littered the margin snippets of conversation, potential business interests, the kind of wines they preferred. Quentin would have called it overkill. Kieran would've said it was just good manners. Nolan called it survival.
He leaned back in his chair, let out a slow breath, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's book so etings."
"You ever feel like a scam artist with a moral compass?" he muttered.
"No such thing," Quentin said smoothly in his mind. "Only artists with vision and limited resources."
Kieran added, "And if you don't lock this down now, Nolan, they'll find another bleeding-heart story to throw their money at."
Nolan sighed, cracking his knuckles. "Alright. Let's build the list."
By the next day he was sending out emails using the Kieran Everleigh alias, crafted to sound charming but efficient. Every ssage was tailored, balancing exclusivity and urgency. By noon, he began calling the higher-priority targets philanthropists, trust fund socialites, mid-tier venture capitalists with PR problems.
"Ms. Lange? Kieran Everleigh. We t at the gala last Friday. I was hoping to follow up on our brief chat about the Arden project. Yes, the hotel. Wonderful, yes I'd love to schedule a one-on-one…"
The responses ca in faster than expected. A couple of people politely declined. But more than a dozen expressed interest. Enough to host three small group etings over the next two days.
He sat back in the cracked leather chair, rotating gently, tapping the pen against his temple.
"First batch scheduled. Tomorrow noon. Second on Thursday. I'll work them like a wine tasting"
***
The makeshift conference room in the Arden wasn't much, but Nolan had dressed it up—candles, cleaned tables, decent lighting, and fresh pastries. Kieran took over for the etings, dressed in a pressed grey-blue blazer, pocket square neat, bruises beneath his concealer barely visible now.
"Ladies and gentlen," Kieran said, raising a glass of sparkling cider as they settled into mismatched chairs. "Welco to the future of the Arden."
He launched into his pitch with theatrical elegance how he had purchased the Arden not as a property, but as a promise. The surrounding neighborhood was on the verge of transformation. With the right vision, this hotel could beco a hub not just for tourism, but for progress.
One investor leaned in. "This all sounds inspiring, but what's the return look like? Hotels are a gamble right now."
Kieran's smile didn't falter. "That's the beauty of it. So of our early supporters like Mr. Wayne weren't looking for a return. They saw a chance to rebuild sothing that could stand as a beacon."
There was a noticeable shift in posture around the room.
A sharp-eyed man in his fifties asked, "Bruce Wayne is contributing?"
"Oh, no," Kieran said casually, with an apologetic shrug. "It's not my place to confirm amounts or involvent. Just that he's… given his blessing, let's say."
He moved on before they could dig deeper, letting the implication simr in the air.
***
This ti it was a smaller group, and the evening weather played to Kieran's advantage. He walked them through the upper floors of the Arden, gave them a vision: rooftop bars, community events, eco-friendly renovations.
Nolan had done the data work. Kieran did the dreaming.
A younger investor asked, "Are you seeking traditional shares or more of a silent partner agreent?"
"Neither," Kieran said. "We're not looking to give up control. This isn't about profit it's about legacy. We're asking for a leap of faith in the form of donations. Those who help build the Arden will be honored. We'll engrave their nas on the wall of contributors visible to everyone who walks through those doors. Think of the new shining light that will flicker like a spotlight on you all as beacons of generosity."
"Tax deductions?"
"Naturally."
That got a few smirks.
As the night ended and handshakes were exchanged, Nolan receded for a mont. His shoulders relaxed. They were doing it. Slowly, but surely, people were buying in.
***
The last eting of the day was with Ms. Lange she is a well-dressed woman in her late fifties. Real estate mogul. Wore too much perfu and liked being the smartest person in the room. Kieran was already waiting, legs crossed, drink in hand, one arm draped lazily over the back of the booth.
"Ms. Lange," he greeted, standing to shake her hand. "You're even more radiant in daylight. Gotham's lucky you haven't run for mayor."
She smirked, lowering herself into the seat. "I'd rather run things behind the curtain. Like you, Mr. Everleigh."
They spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the Arden's location, its tragic past, and Kieran's optimistic vision for the future. He emphasized the jobs it would bring to the area, the community outreach they'd planned rehabilitation partnerships, skill workshops. None of it was a lie. But it was curated.
"And the return?" she asked at last, swirling her wine.
"So investors, like Mr. Wayne, weren't looking for one," Kieran said breezily. "They just wanted to be part of a story where Gotham's broken pieces get glued back together."
He took a sip of his drink before continuing. "But for you, of course, we'd ensure a legacy donation. A room in your na. Lange Hall has a lovely ring to it."
She laughed and didn't say no.
**
The door shut behind him with a soft click,
Nolan slipped off his shoes with one foot, rubbed his temples, and made his way across the worn hardwood floors of the Arden's owner suite.
He sank into the chair, cracked his neck, and powered up the screens.
The website loaded instantly. SavetheArden. an immaculate portal Nolan had spent a couple days crafting. Donation page front and center. Sharp, elegant, persuasive copy. Clean layout. Embedded video of Kieran, sleeves rolled, walking the skeleton of the Arden's rooftop, promising change. Promising heart.
He refreshed the donations tab.
$250 from anonymous donor.
$10,000 from Corswell Enterprises.
$1,000 recurring from "Wes & Co."
$15,000 from The Feng Family Fund.
His eyes widened.
Then
$2,500
$1,000
$4,000
A soft whistle escaped his lips. The numbers weren't world-shattering, but they were real. Tangible. Coming in steady now. His hand hovered above the mouse as he scrolled down, watching new nas populate the list in real ti.
Small tirs. Vanity philanthropists. Real estate folks looking for a PR refresh.
But still real.
Behind his eyes, the others stirred.
"Well," Kieran said, smug and satisfied, "it appears our little rooftop theater worked."
Quentin's voice ca next, a bit more reserved. "Still a long way to go. These are droplets. We'll need a flood."
"They're not just donations," Nolan murmured aloud. "They're our lifeline, we have to fit our renovations into this budget and now we have to be successful."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, just staring at the screen as the notifications continued to ping softly little green flashes in the corner of the dashboard.
Sowhere deep in his gut, Nolan felt a rare thing bubble up.
Hope.
Not just survival. Not just outsmarting the next threat. Hope that one day he could be the threat.
He stood up, walked to the kitchenette, and poured a glass of water, taking a long, slow sip.
Back at the desk, another ping:
$200,000 from Lange Industries
He froze Lange? Now he would just have to repay her with the hall na.
The Lange industries donation started a flood of donors that wouldn't stop.
Kieran whistled in his mind. "Well that sure is sothing, I an I know I'm good but, I'm not that good."
Nolan sat back down slowly, heart skipping a beat. His fingers tapped the side of the glass, gaze fixed on the number. And for a long mont, he didn't move. He didn't even breathe.
This was it.
The Arden was waking up.
Nolan sprang to his feet and popped a bottle of champagne and twirled, yes twirled in a circle.
*ring*
Nothing could bring Nolan down right now.
*ring*
He did it.
*ring*
"This is he!" Nolan answered the phone and his smile plumted and the champagne bottle fell to the floor
—-
A/N: using Bruce's na like that? For sha!
Reviews
All reviews (0)