Too Rich to Beg

Chapter 004

The haptic feedback of a high-end smartphone vibrated against Liam Livingston’s thigh just as he stepped away from the wreckage of his scooter. He pulled the device from his pocket, the screen illuminating to reveal two incoming notifications from Serena Montgomery.

The first was a digital transfer of two thousand dollars. The second was a text message, clinical and sharp: “Buy yourself something decent. Don't humiliate me at the Family Office quarterly gathering tonight.”

Liam let out a dry, short laugh. Two thousand dollars. To Serena, this was a significant gesture of charity, a sum meant to transform a beggar into a presentable accessory. To the man who had just spoken with the Chairman, it was barely a rounding error. He pocketed the phone and hailed a taxi, giving the driver an address that most residents of Manhattan only saw on television.

The Hamptons was not just a neighborhood; it was a fortress of old money and architectural hubris. Every limestone mansion and glass-walled villa was positioned to command a panoramic view of the skyline and the Atlantic beyond. This was the seat of power for the region's elite, and it was where the Chairman had arranged for the first face-to-face meeting of Liam’s restoration.

Inside one of the more discreet but heavily guarded estates, Liam sprawled across a hand-stitched leather sofa. He looked deliberately out of place in his wrinkled, damp clothes, his posture languid and irreverent. Across from him sat the man sent to negotiate the terms of his return: Howard Livingston.

Howard was Liam’s Uncle, the only brother of his father and a man who had navigated the treacherous waters of corporate governance for decades. He sat rigidly, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch untouched on the table before him.

“Liam,” Howard Livingston began, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and forced warmth. “It’s been over two years. You seem... remarkably unburdened by the passage of time.”

Liam reached into a crystal bowl on the mahogany coffee table, grabbed a handful of pistachios, and began cracking them with his teeth, letting the shells fall where they might.

“Cut the pleasantries, Uncle,” Liam said, his mouth half-full. “Let’s get to the balance sheet. How much blood is the Livingston Dynasty losing? What’s the number?”

Howard blinked. He was a man used to the indirect language of the board room—the euphemisms of 'liquidity adjustments' and 'strategic restructuring.' To be addressed so bluntly by a nephew he had once helped exile was jarring.

“Well,” Howard cleared his throat, adjusting his silk tie. “It’s not... astronomical. In the grand scheme of our portfolio...”

Liam raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing. “The number, Howard. What is it?”

“Eight billion,” Howard whispered. “We need eight billion dollars in immediate capital to cover the margin calls and prevent a hostile takeover of our primary holdings.”

Cough! Hack!

Liam nearly choked, a pistachio fragment lodging in his throat. He sat bolt upright, coughing violently until his face turned a light shade of crimson.

“Eight billion?!” Liam shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “You said it wasn't much! That’s not a 'hiccup,' that’s a total systemic collapse!”

He stood up abruptly, dusting salt from his hands. “You know what, Uncle? I just remembered I have a very important appointment. Like, anywhere else. Good luck with the bankruptcy!”

He turned to leave, but Howard scrambled to his feet, catching Liam by the arm. The elder man’s face was etched with genuine desperation.

“Liam, wait! If we don’t get this injection by the end of the fiscal week, the Livingston name is finished! I’m begging you. You are the only one with the liquid assets to bridge this gap. The two conditions you set over the phone—they’re already being handled! The necklace is being sourced, and Warren West’s credit lines are being shredded as we speak! You can’t walk away now!”

Liam looked at his Uncle’s trembling hand, then back at the opulent room. “Uncle, I’m not being difficult. But eight billion dollars? Where do you think I’m keeping that kind of cash? Under my mattress in the Harborview Penthouses?”

“Liam, don’t play games,” Howard said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent hiss. “We’ve seen the internal audits of Vanguard Holdings. The twenty percent stake you bought for two hundred million? In the last thirty months, under the new federal contracts, that stake has matured. Its current market valuation is no less than nine point three billion dollars.”

Howard paused, his eyes softening into a manipulative, paternal gaze. “Liam, think of your heritage. You have a responsibility to your bloodline. You are a Livingston.”

The humor vanished from Liam’s face. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He pulled his arm out of Howard’s grip, his expression becoming a mask of cold, focused steel.

“A Livingston?” Liam repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. “Where was that 'responsibility' when your wife accused me of conspiring with The Client to embezzle funds? Where were you when the family stood by and watched as my parents and I were stripped of our dignity and tossed into the street?”

He stepped closer to Howard, forcing the older man to recoil.

“That two hundred million I invested? Every cent of it was earned through my own sweat, my own trades, and my own risks. I didn't use a dime of the family trust. And yet, when the wolves came, you used me as a scapegoat to protect your own board seats.”

Howard opened his mouth to protest, but Liam cut him off.

“And my parents,” Liam’s voice trembled with suppressed rage. “They gave thirty years to the Dynasty. They bled for the firm. And when we were exiled, you didn't even leave them enough for a down payment on a house. You watched me become a live-in son-in-law, a servant to The Montgomerys, and for two years, not one of you—not a single person in this 'bloodline'—offered a hand. You forgot I existed until you needed my wallet.”

Howard remained silent for a long moment, the weight of the truth hanging between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy.

“I know, Liam. I know we failed you. I can’t change the past, and I won’t insult you by making excuses. I can only offer a path forward.” He looked Liam in the eye, his expression resolute. “If you save the Dynasty, I will personally ensure your total reinstatement. Furthermore, I am authorizing the immediate transfer of control. You will be appointed as the President and CEO of Zenith Media.”

Liam paused. Zenith Media?

That was the crown jewel of the Livingston entertainment portfolio. It was an Industry Titan, a Talent Agency and production house that controlled nearly fifty percent of the A-list talent in the country. It was currently under the iron-fisted management of Howard’s wife and his cousin, Preston Montgomery.

To take Zenith Media would be to rip the heart out of the faction that had betrayed him. It was a massive piece of leverage.

“Zenith Media,” Liam mused, the gears of strategy turning in his head. “My aunt will have a stroke when she finds out I’m sitting in her chair.”

“She’ll survive,” Howard said grimly. “The paperwork for the executive transition will be finalized by the afternoon. You will officially take office tomorrow morning.”

Liam weighed the cost. Eight billion was a staggering sum, but if it bought him the keys to the kingdom and a platform for his revenge, it was a price he was willing to pay. Besides, he couldn't let the empire his grandfather built fall into the hands of creditors. the Chairman had been the only one who truly loved him, even if he had been too weak to stop the exile.

“Fine,” Liam said, reaching into his pocket and tossing his ID onto the table. “Finalize the transfer. Secure the necklace. I have a class reunion at noon, and I’d rather not be late.”

As Liam walked out of the villa, he felt the weight of the world shifting. He hailed another taxi, the two thousand dollars from Serena now feeling like play money. He leaned back in the seat, humming a tune, watching the mansions of the Hamptons blur into the distance.

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of Aegis Corp, Serena Montgomery emerged from a grueling board meeting, her face a mask of exhausted frustration. As she walked toward her office, she passed the communal breakroom.

The sound of raucous laughter stopped her in her tracks. She frowned. Her employees were supposed to be preparing for the quarterly audit, yet they were gathered around a smartphone, hooting with derision.

Serena stepped into the room, her presence unacknowledged at first. Through the huddle of female junior associates, she saw the screen.

It was a video of Liam. He was kneeling on the sidewalk, 'romantically' stroking the mangled remains of his Rusted Moped.

“Don’t worry, little buddy,” Liam’s voice cried out from the speakers, dripping with melodramatic grief. “I’ll make them pay for what they did to you!”

“Oh my god,” one of the girls shrieked, clutching her sides. “Is he for real? Who cries over a five-hundred-dollar piece of scrap metal?”

“That’s our Chairman’s husband,” another girl laughed, shaking her head. “I’ve seen him around for two years. He’s like a specialized breed of loser. How has she not divorced him yet? It’s a literal miracle.”

“Maybe he’s great at chores,” a third chirped. “I heard a girl at the front desk say he was bragging about buying her a Tiffany 'Dream Lover' necklace today. The twenty-eight million dollar one!”

The room erupted into fresh peals of laughter. “With what? The change he finds in the breakroom vending machine? The guy is delusional. He’s a total rube.”

Serena felt a cold, sharp spike of shame pierce her chest. Her husband was the laughingstock of her own company. Every word they said felt like a slap to her own reputation.

“Back to work,” Serena said, her voice like a whip.

The women jumped, the phone nearly falling to the floor. They scattered like mice, faces pale with terror. Serena watched them go, then turned her gaze to the window.

Tomorrow, she would be facing the Dame Beatrice and the rest of the Montgomery elders at The Family Office. And she would have to bring Liam.

She closed her eyes, a single thought echoing in her mind: I can't do this anymore.

Liam, oblivious to the viral video or his wife's spiraling despair, had returned to his small apartment to change. He selected a simple but well-tailored suit—one of the few things he had kept from his former life, hidden in the back of the closet.

As he adjusted his cuffs, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Sloane, The Chairman’s secretary.

“The acquisition of the 'Dream Lover' is complete. It is currently in transit via armored courier. It will be at your location by 5:30 PM. Also, Warren West’s primary construction permits for the Manhattan waterfront have been revoked. His personal accounts are being flagged for 'irregularities.' The collapse has begun.”

Liam smiled. The game was no longer a defensive one. He checked his watch. 11:45 AM. Time for the reunion.

He stepped out of the apartment and caught a ride to the Ritz-Carlton. He was looking forward to seeing his old friends, especially Quentin Ford, the former high school Quarterback, and Sophie Summers. It had been a long time since he had felt like a human being instead of a shadow.

As the taxi pulled up to the luxury hotel, Liam stepped out, adjusted his jacket, and walked toward the entrance with the stride of a man who owned the pavement. Today, the world would start learning that Liam Livingston was back.