Celebrity Investment System

Chapter 7

The storage unit was no longer just a place to sleep; it had become a war room.

Jay sat on a plastic crate, his stomach cramping with a hunger so sharp it felt like a physical wound. He was eating a sleeve of saltine crackers he had bought with the last few coins Sarah had found in her coat pocket. To Jay, each cracker was a luxury. He chewed slowly, making the dry, salty flakes last as long as possible.

Across from him, Sarah Jenkins was hunched over an old, battered laptop she had borrowed from a cousin. Her eyes were bloodshot, reflecting the blue light of the screen. Her fingers moved across the keyboard like a concert pianist, tapping out a rhythm of destruction.

"I've found the cracks, Jay," Sarah whispered, her voice filled with a dark excitement. "Zenith Group isn't a talent agency. It's a factory. I’ve started dropping the 'Truth Bombs' on underground forums and anonymous blogs. I’m not attacking Finn directly—not yet. I’m attacking his 'products.'"

Jay nodded, swallowing a mouthful of dry cracker. "Tell me."

"Zenith’s top star, Tommy G? He didn't write his hit single. He didn't even sing the chorus. I found the original demo from a girl in Nashville who Finn paid fifty thousand dollars to stay quiet. I leaked the audio an hour ago. And the actress, Elena Rose? Her 'charity' for orphans in Brazil? The money never left the Zenith holding account. I’ve posted the bank routing numbers."

Jay leaned back against the cold metal wall. "Good. Finn is a man who builds houses of cards. You aren't just blowing on them, Sarah. You’re setting the bottom floor on fire."

"The internet is losing its mind," Sarah said, a grim smile touching her lips. "People are starting to realize that everything Zenith touches is fake. And the best part? While they’re realizing how fake Tommy G is, they’re still obsessed with the 'Onyx Mystery Man.' Because he’s the only thing that feels real."

"He is real," Jay said. "But more importantly, he’s unavailable. That’s the core of the Scarcity Heuristic. We have the face, and we have the blade. Now, we need the architect."

Jay stood up, his head spinning for a moment from the lack of calories. "Sarah, keep the pressure on. Make Finn spend all his time playing defense. I’m taking Leo to L’Eclat tonight."

Sarah looked up, her brow furrowing. "L’Eclat? Jay, you need a membership just to walk through the door. You’re wearing a suit that smells like a thrift store, and you haven't eaten a real meal in three days. How are you going to get in?"

Jay tapped his temple. "The System doesn't need a membership. It just needs an opening."

The exterior of L’Eclat was a wall of polished black marble and gold trim. Valets in white gloves moved like clockwork, parking Ferraris and Lamborghinis. This was the heart of the city's elite.

Jay stood in the shadows of the alley across the street, watching Leo.

Leo looked nervous. He was wearing the charcoal-grey suit again, but Jay had spent two hours that morning showing him how to adjust the sleeves and how to stand so the fabric didn't bunch. He looked like a prince who had just stepped off a private jet.

"Remember," Jay said, his voice low. "Do not look at the cameras. Do not look at the fans. And most importantly, do not look at the host. You walk in like you own the building and you’ve simply forgotten where your table is."

"And if they ask for my name?" Leo asked, wiping sweat from his palms.

"They won't," Jay said. "If you look like you belong, people are too afraid to ask who you are. It’s the 'Invisibility of the Elite.' Now, here is the target: Wilson Cook. He’ll be at the corner table by the terrace. He’s the most famous director in the world, and he hates Finn Turner. He’s looking for a lead for his next film, 'The Silent King.' He’s rejected five hundred actors because he says they all look 'manufactured.'"

Jay grabbed Leo’s tie and tightened it just a fraction. "When you see him, you are going to use the 3-Second Gaze. Not two seconds—that’s a glance. Not four seconds—that’s a challenge. Three seconds is a connection. You look at him, you hold it, you let him see the 'soul' we’ve been practicing, and then you turn away as if he’s the one who isn't interesting enough for you."

"What are you going to be doing?" Leo asked.

"I’ll be in the kitchen entrance," Jay said. "I know the service codes for this building. Go. Now."

The interior of L’Eclat was a blur of crystal chandeliers and the scent of truffles. Leo walked through the front door. The host, a man in a tuxedo, started to step forward to ask for a reservation.

Leo didn't even glance at him. He adjusted his cufflink and kept walking, his eyes fixed on the terrace. The host froze, intimidated by Leo’s sheer confidence. He assumed this must be some foreign dignitary’s son he hadn't met yet.

Jay, meanwhile, had slipped through the service alley. He moved with the silence of a shadow. He found the back door, where a young delivery boy was struggling with a crate of wine.

"The latch is stuck on the bottom right," Jay said, stepping out of the dark.

The boy startled. "What? Oh, thanks."

Jay helped him lift the crate, and in the process, he swiped a discarded waiter’s jacket from a hook near the door. He put it on, buttoned it up, and grabbed a silver tray. He didn't look like a waiter; he looked like a man who had been working here for twenty years.

He moved into the main dining room, his eyes scanning the crowd. He saw Leo. Leo was doing perfectly.

He was standing near the bar, waiting for his "moment.

But then, Jay’s heart stopped.