One hundred and forty billion reasons

A Life Reimagined

The Rolls Royce Phantom glided along the clifftop road, its custom champagne paint gleaming in the Mediterranean sun. Rohen sat in the back, watching the Aegean Sea stretch endlessly blue beside them, white-washed buildings clinging to volcanic cliffs.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Armitage sat across from him, perfectly at ease in the opulent interior. “Your father fell in love with this island the first time he saw it.”

Rohen pressed his hand against the butter-soft leather seat, still unable to believe this was real. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been sleeping in the servants’ quarters. Now he was being driven through Greece in a car worth half a million dollars.

The Phantom turned into a narrow cobblestone street and stopped before a restaurant perched on the edge of a cliff. Aether & Salt was carved into driftwood above the entrance, elegant and understated.

A valet, younger than Rohen, wearing a crisp white shirt, opened the door. “Welcome, sir.”

Rohen climbed out, and for a split second, muscle memory almost made him reach for the keys to park the car himself. He caught himself, nodded at the valet, and followed Armitage inside.

The restaurant was all white stone and azure accents, open to the sea breeze. Tables draped in linen, crystal stemware catching the light. They were led to a private terrace overlooking the caldera, the view so stunning it didn’t seem real.

“The grilled octopus is exceptional,” Armitage said, settling into his chair. “As is the sea bass. Order whatever you like.”

Rohen scanned the menu. No prices. That told him everything he needed to know.

A server appeared with chilled water and fresh bread. Armitage ordered wine, something French and impossibly old. Rohen ordered the octopus, because he’d never had it before and suddenly he could afford to try everything.

While they waited, Armitage slid a folder across the table. “Acquisition documents for the Athens property. Three hotels all in prime locations. We’ll need your signature.”

Rohen opened it, scanning pages of legal text and financial projections. Numbers that would have made his head spin a week ago. Now they were just… his.

He signed where Armitage indicated, his hand steady.

The food arrived—octopus charred to perfection, drizzled with olive oil and lemon, accompanied by roasted vegetables that tasted like sunlight. Rohen ate slowly, savoring each bite, aware that this single meal probably cost more than he used to make in a week.

“You’re quiet,” Armitage observed.

“Just thinking.” Rohen set down his fork. “A few days ago, I was begging Isolde Veymar for scraps. Now I’m sitting here signing deals worth billions. It doesn’t feel real.”

“Give it time. It will.”

That evening, they arrived at Avalon Infinity Santorin.

Rohen stepped out of the Phantom and stopped, staring.

The resort was a masterpiece. Infinity pools cascading down the cliff face, reflecting the sunset. Private villas with glass walls and plunge pools. Gardens filled with bougainvillea and jasmine. Staff in immaculate white uniforms moved like ghosts, anticipating every need.

“One of our crown jewels,” Armitage said. “Your father designed this himself.”

A concierge approached, bowing slightly. “Mr. Armitage, Mr. Ashtekar. Your suites are ready.”

They didn’t know. None of them knew Rohen owned this place. To them, he was just another guest.

Rohen followed the concierge through marble hallways, past art that probably belonged in museums, to a suite that took his breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the caldera. A bed larger than his entire room at the Veymar estate. A bathroom with heated floors and a rainfall shower that felt like standing in a warm monsoon.

He showered, scrubbing away the last traces of his old life, and found a change of clothes waiting: linen pants and a crisp white shirt that fit perfectly.

A knock at the door.

Armitage stood in the hallway with garment bags draped over his arm and several boxes stacked beside him. “May I come in?”

Rohen stepped aside, and Armitage laid everything out on the bed like a tailor preparing for royalty.

“Bespoke suits from Milan,” Armitage said, unzipping the first bag to reveal charcoal wool and midnight blue silk. “Three Swiss watches—Patek Philippe, Audemars Piguet, Rolex. Handcrafted Italian leather shoes. And this.”

He handed Rohen a sleek black box.

Inside was a smartphone, rose gold and black in color, elegant and impossibly thin. Engraved on the back: R. Ashtekar – Avalon Collective.

“Encrypted,” Armitage explained. “Direct line to Avalon’s executive board, financial systems, property management. Everything you need to run the empire from anywhere in the world.”

Rohen stared at the phone, his name etched in metal. 

“The wardrobe alone is worth over three hundred thousand dollars,” Armitage added.

Rohen looked at the suits, the watches, the shoes. A fortune in gifts. And yet—

“That’s nothing compared to what I inherited,” he said quietly.

“Exactly.” Armitage smiled. “You’re starting to understand.”

The next morning, Rohen dressed in one of the tailored suits—charcoal with a subtle pinstripe, paired with a white shirt and Italian leather shoes that molded to his feet like they’d been waiting for him. He looked in the mirror and barely recognized himself.

Not the valet. Not the nobody.

Someone else entirely.

A Bentley Flying Spur prototype waited outside: sleek black, unreleased to the public, a gift from Avalon’s luxury automotive partners. Rohen slid into the driver’s seat, felt the engine purr to life, and for a moment allowed himself to smile.

They drove to Avalon’s regional headquarters—a glass and stone building overlooking the port. Inside, lawyers and executives waited with documents spread across a conference table.

Rohen signed his name over and over. Transfer agreements. Expansion contracts into emerging markets in Southeast Asia and Africa. Partnerships with hotel groups in Dubai and Singapore.

Afterward, as they walked back to the car, Rohen’s thoughts drifted back to Lira. Her worn dresses. The way she made do with so little while her cousins dripped in designer labels.

She deserves beautiful things. She deserves to know her worth.

But he couldn’t tell her the truth yet. Not until he was ready.

I’ll send her something. Gifts. Elegant but understated. Things she’d actually wear. Make it anonymous so she won’t suspect. A distant benefactor who knew the family and wanted to help.

They reached the Bentley, and Rohen paused before opening the door.

“There’s something else,” he said. “Lira’s father. Robert Castellane. I want you to investigate him.”

“Why?”

Rohen remembered the way Robert had looked at him at the gala—not with cruelty like the others, but with something worse. Resignation. Acceptance of Isolde’s abuse.

“He knows more than he’s saying,” Rohen said. “About the Veymar family. About why they treat people like garbage. I want to know what he’s hiding.”