Rise Of The Trillionaire: Robert Jackson

CHAPTER SIX

His left eye was still swelling as a result of the slap of Sandra. He put it to his lips, and fainted at the pain. Its skin had gone a dark purple, and was bruised.

He was in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at the damage. His reflection looked back half his face swollen and discolored. His white of eye had red streaks in it.

"Bitch." He muttered under his breath.

His telephone rang on the night stand. Robert strolled back into the bedroom where he took up the phone grudgingly. The name Uncle Phillip appeared in the screen.

He answered. "What?"

Robert, the board is prepared to have an interview with you tomorrow at ten. Don't be late." There was a kind of artificialness of warmth in Uncle Phillip that crawled along Robert.

"I'll be there." Robert said flatly.

"Excellent. We have everything ready to receive you. The office, the contracts, all that. Everything's made as you wanted it to be made."

"Good. I would not want anything less than that of the Jackson family. The voice of Robert was full of sarcasm.

Uncle Phillip with a nervous laugher. "Of course, of course. See you tomorrow, nephew. Get some rest big day ahead."

Robert hung up, and did not say good bye. He tossed the phone on the bed.

He brought his black card out of his wallet, and rubbed his thumb over the golden characters of his name. The following day, he would enter Zenco enterprise as the president. Not as the destitute nephew whom they kicked five years back.

The irony wasn't lost on him. The very individuals that had deprived him of all their possessions now required his services very much.

Robert took a shower and allowed the warm water to loosen the knots of the muscles. He lingered longer than needed under the spray, and took the luxury of not being hurried. No Roxanne jingling bells. And no Sandra screaming that he come faster.

Just silence. Beautiful, peaceful silence.

Having put on his French suit, Robert again glanced at himself. The high priced cloth was nonsensical when paired with delivery trainers. He needed proper shoes. Real shoes, expensive shoes.

He reached into his wallet and walked away. The hotel lobby was full of businessmen and tourists. No one gave him any attention just another guest.

The city had the most expensive shoe store occupying a corner of the Fifth Avenue. Hundreds of times Robert had passed it, making pizzas and never daring to enter the building. The individual prices on the window made him feel like turning over at the time.

He now thrust through the glass doors with a feeling of confidence. A bell chimed overhead.

The counter sales girl raised her head off the phone she was young, in her early twenties, with perfectly manicured nails and an attitude to accompany. Her blonde curly hair was drawn back in a tight ponytail.

She gazed down and up at Robert, and her nose wrinkled in clear disgust. Her gaze lingered upon his trainers.

"Can I help you?" She inquired it was something she would not prefer to do.

Robert went nearer to the counter. "I need shoes. Your best pair."

The girl laughed actually laughed in his face. She put her hand over her mouth, yet the delight was that of her eyes.

“Our least expensive pair, sir, begin with five thousand dollars. I don't think you can afford it"

Robert drawn back his black card and hard-slapped it against the glass counter to the point of her jumping.

"I said your best pair. Not your cheapest."

The girl's eyes widened. Her smile faded away at once. She picked the card so that she could look at it as she would have looked on a counterfeit card. She rolled it, examined the hologram, the weight, the carving.

Her face went pale. Every hue grew out of her cheeks.

"Right away, sir. Do have a seat in our VIP section, please.” Her voice had been entirely changed.

Robert didn't move. "I'll stand."

She ran away into the back room, her heels beating madly on the marble floor. She came back a few minutes later with a man in a made-up suit, who was older. The manager, probably.

I am very sorry, Mr. Jackson, I am sorry to cause any inconvenience. The manager stretched out his hand, grinning so broadly and unnaturally.

Robert ignored it. "Just show me the shoes."

The manager's hand dropped. "Of course. Right this way."

They ushered him into a small room where there were some chairs made of leather, and ice champagne. Robert was sitting as they brought box after box of shoes.

Italian leather, Handcrafted. Limited edition. All of them were costlier and costlier.

Robert put on a few pairs, and sauntered at his leisure. Making them wait and working them to earn his money.

Robert was wandering out twenty minutes later in Italian leather shoes that were worth fifteen thousand dollars. Delivery trainers were sitting in a designer shopping bag, a reminder of where he was.

He disposed them in the closest trash can next to the store.

His phone rang again. Dave. “I heard what you were doing after you left last night, man. Luke wouldn't shut up about it. He's telling everyone." Dave was apologetic, even ashamed.

"It's fine. I'm used to it." Robert answered, but his jaw made a clench at the thought.

"No, it's not fine. That has been an asshole of a guy. A complete jerk. Look, I suppose you want somewhere to sleep, my door is open. Seriously, anytime."

Robert smiled. Dave was the sole actual companion he had left. The only person who did not desert him when money came to an end.

"Thanks, but I'm good. Actually, I'm better than good. I will see you tomorrow, at Zenco enterprise, at ten. I have a surprise for you."

"Zenco? What are you doing there? Did you get a job or something?" Dave asked, confused.

"You'll see. Just be there." Robert cut short before Dave could put more questions.

The remainder of the day he spent in shopping. Designer suits of which he could hardly make the name. Armani. Versace. Tom Ford. Fresh watches that are more expensive than cars, Rolex, Patek Philippe.

New everything. A complete transformation.

The sneering clerks who had at first looked down on him at first were now falling over themselves to render assistance. They took his bags, brought him champagne, addressed him sir and did so with sincere admiration.

Money changed everything. Absolutely everything.

By night, Robert made a five star hotel check-in. The Ritz. The penthouse suite was even priced higher than he would earn in a month at the pizza place.

He didn't care. He might spare it a thousand times and not have its loss.

He ordered room service. Lobster, caviar, the best wine of France. He consumed like a king, and took his time. No more leftover pizza. Enough of scraps on the plate of Roxanne.

Robert slept in a bed that was larger than the whole bedroom of Roxanne and those silk sheets felt so good against his skin. The bed was as soft as cloud-bedding.

The actual performance would start tomorrow. They would all see tomorrow what Robert Jackson had been.

He slept with a smile on his face. An actual smile after several years.