Too Rich to Beg

Chapter 006

Liam Livingston barely had time to let the velvet cushion of the chair meet his back before he felt the temperature in the immediate vicinity drop. Sophie Summers turned toward him, her expression a mask of clinical detachment, her eyes scanning him with the same disdain one might reserve for a smudge on a gallery wall.

"I’m sorry," Sophie said, her voice cool and carrying just enough volume to be heard by the surrounding tables. "But I was actually saving this seat for my old desk mate. I’d appreciate it if you could find somewhere else to sit."

Liam blinked, gesturing toward a woman sitting three tables away. "Jocelyn Zane? But she’s already settled in over there with the girls. I didn't think—"

Sophie’s brow furrowed, her nose wrinkling in a display of performative disgust. She lifted a delicate, manicured hand to cover her nostrils. "Is it just me, or is there a... pungent odor? It’s making me quite nauseous. Could you please move? I find it difficult to maintain an appetite under these conditions."

The table went silent for a heartbeat before erupting into snickers. Liam instinctively lifted his arm to sniff his sleeve. Nothing. He had showered less than two hours ago and put on a fresh, albeit inexpensive, cotton shirt. The woman was hallucinating, or worse, she was putting on a show.

"God, Liam, when was the last time you saw a bar of soap?" Quentin Ford joked, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

"Give the guy a break, Quarterback," another classmate added, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Look at his clothes. The fabric is practically translucent from being washed too many times. He’s probably working a double shift at some warehouse. A little 'blue-collar musk' is to be expected, right?"

A woman nearby chimed in, standing up with an exaggerated sigh. "Here, Liam, take my spot at the end of the table. We wouldn't want you ruining our future superstar’s evening. Sophie is going to be the face of Zenith Media soon; she shouldn't have to deal with... industrial smells."

Liam opened his mouth to deliver a sharp retort, but before he could speak, a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Sebastian Cross, his old friend and one of the few people who hadn't joined the chorus of mockery. Sebastian pulled him away from the center of the room.

"Let it go, man," Sebastian whispered as they found a small, isolated table in the back corner. "She’s not the girl we knew in high school. She’s chasing the spotlight now, and guys like us are just shadows to her. Come on, it’s been too long. Let’s just have a drink."

Liam looked back at the main table. Sophie Summers was already laughing at something Quentin said, her previous 'nausea' seemingly cured by his absence. Liam shook his head, a dry, amused smile touching his lips. He clinked his glass against Sebastian's.

"To the shadows," Liam murmured.

As the afternoon progressed and the wine flowed freely, the atmosphere in the Ritz-Carlton ballroom grew hazy with nostalgia and alcohol. The group's earlier cruelty softened into boisterousness. Someone suggested that since they had a professional dancer in their midst, they shouldn't let the opportunity go to waste.

"Sophie! Give us a preview of the Zenith Media talent!" they chanted.

Sophie Summers, her cheeks flushed a deep rose from the Chardonnay, stood up gracefully. She didn't need much convincing. She moved to the center of the floor as a slow, rhythmic track began to pulse through the room’s sound system.

She began to dance, her body moving with a fluid, water-like grace that commanded the room’s absolute silence. Every movement was calculated to be both elegant and provocatively lithe. Her waist swayed with a hypnotic rhythm, her eyes half-closed as she lost herself in the performance. Every man in the room—and more than a few of the women—watched with bated breath.

Liam watched too, but his gaze was different. He wasn't seeing a star; he was seeing an asset. As the future owner of Zenith Media, he was evaluating her technique. She’s good, he thought. But she lacks soul. She’s all artifice.

By early evening, the reunion began to wind down. As the group filtered out into the lobby, several men with luxury SUVs and sports cars practically tripped over themselves offering to drive Sophie home.

"Thanks, guys, but I have a car," Sophie said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "My driver has been waiting outside for twenty minutes."

The group watched in stunned silence as she stepped into a pristine, pearl-white McLaren Artura. The engine gave a throaty growl before the car disappeared into the Manhattan traffic, leaving the would-be suitors looking down at their own keys with newfound embarrassment.

Sebastian Cross leaned over to Liam. "Man, she really is something else. Could you imagine? One night with a woman like that... I’d give up five years of my life, easy."

Liam chuckled, patting his friend on the back. "Trust me, Sebastian, she’s not worth the years."

Just then, a tinny, high-pitched ringtone erupted from Liam's pocket. It was a loud, dated pop song that stood out in the sophisticated lobby of the Ritz-Carlton like a neon sign in a cathedral. Heads turned. More than a few people smirked.

Liam pulled out his phone. The caller ID read: Wife.

"Hey," Liam said, answering with a grin.

"Did you buy the clothes I told you to get for the gathering at the Family Office?" Serena Montgomery's voice was a cold blade of ice on the other end. "If you show up looking like a vagrant, don't bother coming at all. Buy the suit and get home. Now."

Click.

The line went dead. Liam realized he had completely forgotten about the shopping. He quickly exchanged numbers with Sebastian, said his goodbyes, and hurried out to the parking lot.

"Oh my god, look!" Jocelyn Zane pointed and laughed as the group exited the hotel. "Liam actually rode a scooter here! I thought the valet was joking!"

The laughter followed him as he pulled out onto the street, his Rusted Moped whining as he accelerated. He didn't care. He had a specific destination in mind.

While Liam was navigating traffic, Serena Montgomery was preparing to leave the headquarters of Aegis Corp. The stress of the upcoming quarterly meeting was a physical weight on her chest. She was gathered her things when a man in a crisp, black suit—carrying himself with the military precision of a high-end security detail—entered her outer office.

"Can I help you?" Serena asked, her brow furrowing.

The man stepped forward and placed an exquisite, unmarked box on her desk. "A delivery for Ms. Montgomery. A gift from my employer."

Serena's two assistants, who had been hovering nearby, immediately crowded around the desk.

"Ooh! The Client? Or a secret admirer?" one teased.

Serena gave them a sharp, warning look. "I don't have time for games. Who is your employer?"

"He preferred to remain anonymous for the moment," the courier said with a polite, enigmatic bow. "He said he hoped you would recognize the sentiment. Have a pleasant evening, Ms. Montgomery."

He turned and vanished before she could ask another question. Serena stared at the box. It was heavy, wrapped in a textured, charcoal-grey paper that whispered of extreme wealth. Slowly, she pulled the ribbon and lifted the lid.

The entire office seemed to gasp at once.

"Is that..." the assistant’s voice trailed off into a squeak of disbelief. "Is that the Tiffany 'Dream Lover'?"

Serena felt the air leave her lungs. She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from the necklace. The centerpiece diamond—a flawless, three-carat teardrop—seemed to possess its own internal light source. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was a masterpiece of gemology.

Because she had dreamed of this specific piece for years, Serena knew every facet, every setting, every hallmark of the original ten. She picked it up. The weight was perfect. The clarity of the stones was beyond anything a replica could achieve.

This was real. This was the twenty-eight million dollar original.

"I don't believe it," Serena whispered, her heart racing. "Who would... how could..."

Her mind immediately went to Warren West. He had given her a fake that morning. Had he felt guilty? Had he somehow, through some miracle of finance and networking, secured the real one to make up for the insult? It seemed impossible, but who else would have the motive?

A surge of warmth and intense relief flooded her. If Warren had done this, it meant his support for Aegis Corp was absolute. It meant she was saved.

"I’m going to be the envy of the entire Livingston Dynasty tonight," she murmured, a triumphant smile finally breaking across her face. "I'm going to be the star."