Rise of the Rich and Powerful Jamie Ashford

Chapter 7

Clandestine Fashion was a name that echoed opulence across every elite corner of the country. With a valuation of $2 billion, it wasn’t just a fashion brand—it was a symbol. Its Hollywood University branch, located within the most luxurious plaza near campus, was where the city’s young elite came to flaunt their privilege and burn money on imported Italian leather, silk scarves, and designer accessories. The chandeliers glittered like stardust, and the air inside was chilled to a precise 19°C, diffused with a fragrance that cost more than some students' tuition.

And yet, in that glimmering temple of vanity, stood Jamie.

Dusty, worn, and bruised from life’s most unforgiving trials, he held several shopping bags filled with clothes he intended to buy—if they’d let him. But his mere presence was causing tremors. The air changed the moment Olivia Feng made that call.

The manager emerged moments later—Ms. Tricia Monteverde, the iron-clad guardian of Clandestine Fashion. She was a vision in a navy-blue pantsuit, her stiletto heels clacking like a judge’s gavel. At five-foot-seven, with high cheekbones, piercing gray eyes, and an aura that demanded submission, she was feared and admired by all employees. The staff straightened up the moment she appeared. Even customers quieted their chatter. But not Olivia, Meghan, or Amanda. They rushed to her like lion cubs to their mother.

“Aunt Trish, thank God,” Olivia said, flipping her hair. “You have to get rid of this pest. He stinks, and he’s been trying to steal clothes. I mean, really? This is Clandestine Fashion, not a soup kitchen.”

Ms. Tricia offered a warm hug to Olivia. “Darling. You look radiant. Still slaying Hollywood?”

“Always,” Olivia replied, grinning.

Jamie stood silently a few feet away, watching the theatrics. Meghan chimed in next, “That’s Jamie. He’s a wanted man. Mick Dalton’s people are looking for him. I heard he owes a hundred grand in damages for robbing that dump, Momentum Nightclub. And guess who Mick hired?” She lowered her voice dramatically. “Ray Fenix.”

Ms. Tricia froze for half a second. Even her mascara seemed to stiffen. She didn’t question Olivia’s half-truths—Amanda and Meghan nodded along, sealing the lie.

Ray Fenix.

The name had the weight of a tombstone. The Red Fenix gang—his gang—was the whisper in every alley, the shadow in every dark deal. They were one of many arms under the AS99 organization, the most feared global mafia syndicate, rumored to be backed by dark political dynasties and underground empires. It was even whispered, in hushed tones, that the Ashfords, the enigmatic family at the summit of societal control, had built AS99 in the first place and currently controls it.

“Ray Fenix?” Tricia said under her breath. “This Jamie—that Jamie—crossed Ray Fenix?”

Hiring Fenix meant deep pockets or deeper connections, and crossing him was a death sentence. 

Amanda, whose voice always carried more venom than sense, stepped up. She leaned in, eyes glinting with malice. “Dating you was a nightmare—always begging for a common grand, me threatening to dump you just to make you hustle. Couldn’t even save your mom’s corpse—penniless and pathetic.” 

The crowd tittered, students pausing their shopping to gawk.

That struck Jamie deep. His fists clenched slightly, his eyes narrowing. He could easily have told them that he now owned the hospital. That the corpse they mocked was now preserved under his direct authority. That their words were punching the air.

But he said nothing.

Ms. Tricia turned to him. “Jamie, I suggest you leave now. Not just because of your... condition,” she waved her hand dismissively toward his clothes, “but because I do not want Ray Fenix’s wrath in my establishment. This is bigger than you, bigger than your ego.” 

She rambled on, her voice tight with dread. “When Fenix can’t handle something, he calls up the chain—AS99’s got layers even he can’t touch. Unbeatable. If he’s after you, kid, you’re already dead.” Her words weren’t just a warning; they were a verdict.

Jamie smiled, a slow, defiant curve. “Let me pay for this and go. That’s all.” His tone was calm, but steel lay beneath it.

Ms. Tricia scoffed. “Pay? You? I won’t risk Fenix’s wrath—or my store’s reputation. Get out.” Her fear of the mob outweighed her disdain for his stench, though she didn’t spare him the barbs. “You’re a walking sewer—go rot elsewhere.” 

The insults stung—Amanda’s giggles, Olivia’s sneer, Meghan’s smug nod—but Jamie’s resolve hardened. Ten billion dollars burned in his account, a fortune that could swallow Clandestine Fashion, the Reynolds, all of them, without a hiccup. 

The attendant, standing by the cash register, spoke up. “What he picked is worth over five million.”

The room erupted in laughter. “Five million? That’s my net worth.” Olivia crowed. “Harari’s after him for a hundred grand he can’t pay, and he thinks he’s got that?”

Tricia blinked in shock. “You have five million dollars on you?”

The girls burst into laughter. Amanda almost fell over. “Five million? This is the same guy who borrowed two hundred bucks from me to fix his phone.”

Olivia cackled. “He should clear his debt with Mick before dreaming of luxury. I mean, Jamie, come on. If you ever become as rich as me—five million net worth minimum—maybe we’ll consider letting you back in.”

“Until then,” Meghan added with a smirk, “go shop in a thrift store.”

Ms. Tricia laughed, though her voice held a trace of unease. “She’s right. We serve elites, Mr. Jamie. Not delusional men hiding from mobsters.”

Jamie smiled.

Not with joy—but with the subtle rage of someone betrayed, mocked, and underestimated for far too long.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. Everyone paused as they heard him say, “Hello, Mick? Tell Ray Fenix’s men to meet me at Clandestine Fashion. I’m here, waiting.”

The entire store went still.

A girl by the fragrance aisle dropped her perfume tester. Meghan gasped audibly. Even Tricia lost a touch of color in her face.

“You what?” Amanda asked, stepping back.

“You idiot!” Ms. Tricia hissed, eyes wide. “You’re bringing Ray Fenix here?”

Jamie ended the call, strolled over to the lounge area, and reclined on the black velvet chair like a man on vacation. “I’m tired. Had a long night. I’ll be sleeping while we wait.”

“Wait for what?” Tricia asked, trembling.

He didn't reply.

He shut his eyes.

And slept.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Panic spread like perfume through the store. Customers left quietly. Staff began hiding high-end items. Olivia paced frantically. Meghan opened and closed her compact mirror repeatedly. Amanda chewed a nail for the first time in years.

Then came the screech of tires.

Black SUVs. Four of them.

Out stepped giants.

Men with crimson phoenix tattoos crawling up their necks and forearms. Black trench coats, silver rings, eyes that hadn’t blinked in years. And at the center of it all was the man himself—Ray Fenix.

Six-foot-five. Scars like war medals. A jawline sharp enough to slice stone. And behind him, five of his most trusted killers.

Everyone froze.

Ms. Tricia ran up, pleading. “Mr. Fenix, please, not in my store. I had no idea this would escalate. Please... we’ll send him out—”

But Ray brushed past her like she was smoke. His mind was locked on the boy who had dared call him.

Amanda tapped Jamie.

“Get up, you moron. Look what you’ve done!”

Jamie stirred, blinking into the glare of Fenix’s cold curiosity. The man loomed, a predator sizing up prey too small to warrant the hunt. Jamie’s pulse spiked—Fenix was terrifying, a legend of blood and bone—but a flicker of calm steadied him. This thug was a flea in the Ashford empire, miles below Raymond’s orbit. Could the old man be watching again, like at the hospital?

The girls huddled, pity softening their scorn. “Poor bastard,” Meghan muttered. “Fenix is his funeral.” Olivia nodded, almost solemn. “No one deserves this.”

He faced the mob boss.

Ray tilted his head. “You’re Jamie?”

Jamie nodded.

The store watched the showdown like it was a gladiator match. Even the lights seemed dimmer now.

Ray’s hand moved toward Jamie’s collar. “You got guts. Calling me here. You think you're invincible?”

But before he could touch him, his phone rang.

Ray stopped mid-motion.

It wasn’t his regular burner.

It was his main phone—the one only his superiors in AS99 could ever contact. He never got calls on that line unless it was urgent.

He pulled it out.

His face shifted.

The name on the screen was... Don Atorro.

Everyone watched Ray Fenix—the fearless, brutal warhound—begin to tremble.

He stared at the name, confused, scared, almost childlike in his silence. He didn’t even know that someone like Don Atorro knew he existed. Let alone had access to his private line.