Chapter 190 - 189 The New Rich

( JESSIE )

The blinding Asuir City sun beats down on my heavy, paint-splattered denim jacket. The heat radiating off the concrete pavement feels like an open oven door.

Preston Pierce stands directly in front of me on the sidewalk. He smells of expensive bergamot cologne, high-octane engine exhaust, and pure, concentrated arrogance. He adjusts the collar of his loud, unbuttoned floral silk shirt, flashing a perfectly white, infuriatingly confident smile.

My hands ball into tight fists at my sides. My fingernails dig into my palms.

Our grandfathers built massive real estate and international shipping empires together. The Pierce family and the Hayes family forced us into the same elite playdates, the same rigid boarding schools, and the same miserable charity galas since we were toddlers. Preston never acted like a proper upper-class gentleman. He constantly showed up to formal dinners with bruised knuckles and split lips, fresh from whatever back-alley street fight he provoked that afternoon. He thrives on absolute, uncontrolled chaos.

Three years ago, I received my official acceptance letter to the academy of fine arts. My parents threw a massive, elegant banquet to celebrate. Preston decided it would be hilarious to step heavily on the train of my custom silk gown as I walked up the grand staircase.

The sharp, terrible sound of ripping fabric echoed across the silent, crowded ballroom. My dress tore all the way up to my thigh. The burning heat of pure humiliation scorched my cheeks as hundreds of wealthy guests stared at me. His parents issued a formal, rigid apology the next morning, sending a massive bouquet of white roses to our estate. I threw the roses directly into the garbage incinerator.

I hold grudges. I hold this specific grudge incredibly close to my heart.

I take a slow, deep breath, forcing the bitter memory away. I need his resources today.

"My business partners are waiting inside," I say, pointing a finger at his exposed chest. "We are opening a collectible-figure-themed bubble tea shop. We need high-end inventory to line the display cases. You hoard the exact imported figures we require to make this launch successful."

Preston chuckles. He slides his dark aviator sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, looking at me with bright, amused green eyes. "You want to raid my private collection for a bubble tea shop? That is incredibly bold, Jessie. But for you? I will definitely help out."

His cheerful tone puts me immediately on edge.

"There are ground rules," I instruct, stepping closer to ensure he hears every single word over the noisy street traffic. "You do not mention the Pierce Shipping Empire. You do not mention that your family is one of the three major clans in Asuir City. My partners do not care about high society. If they find out you are a billionaire heir, they might treat me differently. They might distance themselves from me."

Preston glances back at his ridiculously loud, cherry-red convertible sports car illegally parked in the loading zone. "How exactly do I explain the vehicle, Jessie? Or the custom Rolex on my wrist?"

"You are newly rich," I say flatly. "You hit the lottery. You made a lucky stock trade. Play the part of an obnoxious guy with new money. It fits your personality perfectly anyway."

He laughs aloud, a bright, grating sound. "Nouveau riche. I love it. Lead the way."

We walk through the heavy glass doors of Fister Restaurant. The freezing central air conditioning hits my sweat-dampened skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. Vincent Ziggler stands near the mahogany host stand. He looks at me, then looks at Preston. Vincent is a seasoned hospitality manager. He recognizes a Pierce when he sees one. A thick bead of sweat rolls down Vincent’s temple, but he keeps his mouth completely shut.

"Right this way," Vincent says, his voice shaking slightly.

He turns and leads us through the dim, velvet-lined dining hall toward the private suites in the back.

( PRESTON )

I follow the sweating restaurant manager down the narrow, carpeted hallway. The establishment smells heavily of roasted garlic, clarified butter, and seared steak. Jessie walks beside me, her posture rigid with intense anxiety. She is terrified I will ruin her little startup venture. I find the entire situation incredibly entertaining. Playing the role of a clueless, newly rich lottery winner requires a complete lack of refinement. I can definitely manage a lack of refinement.

Vincent stops in front of a heavy mahogany door. He turns the brass handle and pushes it open, stepping aside to let us enter.

I walk into the private dining suite. The walls are covered in dark red velvet acoustic panels. A massive crystal chandelier hangs over a circular wooden table. Three women sit around the polished mahogany.

I scan the room, projecting my most obnoxious, arrogant grin.

The girl on the left wears a simple beige skirt and a white blouse. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. She holds a clipboard against her chest. Her eyes go completely wide the second I step through the door. A bright, unmistakable flush of pink creeps up her neck and settles on her cheeks. She practically drops her pen onto the floor.

The teenager sitting next to her is even more obvious. She wears scuffed sneakers and a graphic t-shirt. She stares at my face, her jaw literally dropping open. She stops chewing her pink bubblegum entirely.

These are standard, expected reactions. I am tall, I spend a fortune on personal grooming, and I wear clothes tailored to emphasize my athletic physique. Women in my elite social circle pretend not to notice. Women outside my social circle stare openly. I feed on the attention.

Then, I look at the third woman.

She sits at the exact center of the table. She wears plain, tailored beige slacks and a crisp white blouse. Her dark hair falls smoothly over her shoulders. She wears absolutely zero heavy makeup, allowing her sharp, natural features to stand out in the warm light of the chandelier.

She looks directly at me. Her dark eyes are completely calm. She does not blush. She does not widen her eyes in surprise. She evaluates me with the cold, calculating precision of a surgeon inspecting a biological specimen.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my designer trousers. The heavy gold chain rests prominently against my chest. I deliberately project the image of a flashy, careless idiot. I wait for her to show a hint of disdain, a flash of annoyance, or even a spark of physical attraction.

She offers absolutely nothing. Her face remains a mask of perfect, polite indifference.

My grin falters for a fraction of a second. The complete lack of reaction acts like a sharp hook catching the back of my mind. The wealthy heiresses I deal with daily throw themselves at my feet to secure a fraction of my shipping empire. This woman looks at me like I am a mild inconvenience standing in the way of her lunch.

"You must be Jessie’s friend," the woman says. Her voice is smooth, level, and entirely devoid of intimidation. She gestures to the empty leather chair across from her. "Please, take a seat."

I walk over and drop heavily into the chair. I lean back and rest my ankle over my knee, maximizing my obnoxious, sprawling posture. I stare right into her dark eyes.

"I am Preston," I say, making sure my tone is loud and overly casual. "Jessie tells me you girls need some toys for a tea shop."

( EMILY )

I watch Preston drop into the expensive leather chair. He sprawls across the furniture, invading the space with his long limbs and loud, floral silk shirt. He wears dark aviator sunglasses indoors. The thick gold chain around his neck catches the light of the crystal chandelier.

Zoe sits beside me, completely frozen in place. Her hands grip the edges of her clipboard so tightly her knuckles are stark white. Fiona looks like she forgot how to inhale oxygen. Preston is undeniably handsome. He has a sharp, angled jawline, thick dark hair, and the effortless, athletic build of a man who spends hours in exclusive private gyms.

I see right past the physical appearance.

He reeks of excessive bergamot cologne and aggressive overcompensation. He drove a bright red convertible sports car loud enough to shake the heavy glass windows of the restaurant. He walks with a swagger designed specifically to demand attention. Jessie asked us not to judge him, mentioning his family recently came into money. It shows perfectly. He possesses all the financial resources of the upper class but absolutely none of the refinement, restraint, or discipline. He is the textbook definition of the newly rich.

I do not care about his lack of social graces. I care entirely about his inventory.

"We do not need toys, Preston," I correct him, keeping my voice steady and strictly professional. "We are opening a high-end, immersive beverage experience. We require premium, limited-edition imported figures to serve as the core visual aesthetic of the establishment. Jessie indicated you possess a substantial private collection."

Preston pulls his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, peering over the dark rims at me. His bright green eyes lock onto mine. He seems genuinely surprised by my directness. He probably expects women to flatter him before asking for favors. I do not have the time or the patience for flattery.

"I have a collection," Preston agrees.

A slow, entirely different kind of smile touches the corners of his mouth. The obnoxious, exaggerated grin vanishes entirely. A sharp, calculating expression replaces it.

"But my pieces are incredibly rare," Preston continues, his tone losing the loud, careless edge. "I don’t typically sell my imports to strangers setting up corner cafes."

"Everything has a price," I reply calmly, resting my hands flat on the mahogany table. "We are prepared to negotiate a fair market value for a select portion of your inventory. If you are open to a mutually beneficial arrangement, we can discuss the details over lunch. If you are entirely unwilling to part with your items, we can end this meeting right now and save everyone a great deal of time."

Preston sits up straighter in his leather chair. He places both feet flat on the floor, abandoning the sprawling, careless posture completely. He studies my face, his green eyes scanning my neutral expression for a sign of bluffing.

"You are incredibly serious," Preston notes. His voice drops slightly in volume.

"I am building a business," I state clearly. "I take my investments seriously."

Jessie slides into the empty chair next to Preston. She looks nervously between the two of us, clearly expecting a massive argument to erupt at any second. She wipes a smear of pink paint off her denim jacket, her spine rigid.

"Preston," Jessie warns, her tone sharp. "Behave."

Preston ignores her completely. He keeps his focus entirely on me. The loud, newly rich facade slips away for a brief moment. A highly intelligent, intensely curious man hides beneath the floral silk and heavy gold chains.

"I am not interested in selling my collection for cash," Preston says slowly. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the polished wood of the table. "I have plenty of money. But I am always interested in a unique investment opportunity. Show me your blueprints. If the design impresses me, we might be able to work out a different kind of deal."

I reach for the black cardboard tube resting on the floor beside my chair. The negotiation is officially open. I will secure this inventory, regardless of how many games this arrogant collector wants to play.