Too Rich to Beg

Chapter 008

The golden chandeliers of the Family Office cast a warm, honeyed glow over the assembled elite of the Montgomery clan, but the atmosphere near the center of the hall had turned frigid. Liam Livingston stood with a relaxed posture that bordered on insolent, his hand still resting lightly on Serena Montgomery’s arm as he faced down a sputtering Preston Montgomery.

The silence that followed Liam’s dismissal of the thirty-nine-thousand-dollar suit was absolute. It was the kind of silence that precedes a lightning strike. Even the catering staff froze, silver trays balanced precariously as they sensed the shift in the room's power dynamic.

Liam’s gaze swept over the gathered relatives, finally settling back on Preston’s face, which was rapidly turning a mottled shade of violet.

"You're making a lot of noise about custom tailoring, Preston," Liam said, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of calm authority that seemed entirely out of place for a man who rode a Rusted Moped. "But perhaps you’ve been so blinded by the invoice that you failed to notice what’s actually sparkling right in front of you. Did you truly miss the piece Serena is wearing tonight? I find it hard to believe someone with such 'refined' taste wouldn't recognize the 'Dream Lover' when it's practically illuminating the room."

As if on cue, Serena Montgomery’s hand flew to her neck, her fingers grazing the cool, heavy metal of the pendant. At the mention of the name, a collective gasp—sharper and more frantic than the previous one—rippled through the crowd.

All eyes, which had previously been fixed on Preston’s expensive wool, shifted in a violent synchronized movement toward Serena’s throat. Specifically, they locked onto the necklace. Under the intense glare of the high-ceilinged lights, the diamond seemed to pulse with an inner fire, throwing out brilliant, prismatic shards of light that made every other piece of jewelry in the room look like costume glass.

"Wait... the 'Dream Lover'?" a woman’s voice whispered from the crowd, trembling with a mix of awe and disbelief. "The Tiffany masterpiece? I thought those were exclusively reserved for royalty and heads of state. There are only ten in existence globally!"

"It can't be," another relative stammered, stepping closer and squinting. "The centerpiece... that's a D-flawless blue-white diamond. The setting is unmistakable. That’s not just a necklace; that’s a trophy of a Industry Titan."

The air in the hall grew thick with a new kind of tension—pure, unadulterated envy. In the world of the ultra-wealthy, a custom suit was a common currency, but the 'Dream Lover' was a mythical artifact. It represented a level of access and liquidity that the Montgomerys usually only dreamed of.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant, haunting melody of a Chopin nocturne played by the hired pianist. The social hierarchy of the room was being rewritten in real-time. Serena, who had spent the evening feeling like a pariah, suddenly found herself at the epicenter of a worshipful circle. The gaze of the crowd had transformed from mockery to reverence, satisfying a deep-seated craving for validation that she hadn't even realized was so hollow.

She looked at Liam. He wasn't preening. He wasn't looking for credit. He just stood there with that same, infuriatingly steady smile, looking every bit the equal of the men who controlled the city’s skyline.

"I think... you're full of it!" Preston Montgomery finally managed to roar, his voice cracking with desperation. He lunged forward, his eyes fixed on the pendant with a manic intensity. "The 'Dream Lover'? Please! Do you have any idea what that costs? That thing is worth more than this entire villa! Where would you get that kind of money, Liam? You probably spent your last few hundred bucks on a high-quality glass replica from some street corner in Manhattan just to save face!"

Preston’s chest was heaving. He had bet everything on his suit, and he could feel his status slipping through his fingers like sand. "It’s a fake! It has to be! You’re just trying to dazzle us with cheap tricks because you’re a nobody who married into a family he doesn't deserve!"

Liam didn't lose his temper. Instead, he let out a short, dismissive snort. "Believe what you want, Preston. Whether or not you can afford to comprehend the reality of our finances is not a report I’m obligated to file with you. Some people buy suits to feel powerful. Others just... are."

"Liam!"

Vanessa Sterling reappeared from the shadows of the buffet line. She had seen the commotion and heard the whispers. Her eyes were wide, darting between the necklace on her daughter’s neck and the defiant look on her son-in-law’s face. She moved toward them, her expression a complex mask of greed, suspicion, and a sudden, sharp warning. She leaned in, her voice low and sharp.

"Watch your tongue," she muttered to Liam, though her eyes never left the diamonds. Then, turning to Preston with a practiced, sugary smile, she smoothed things over. "Now, Preston, dear, let’s not get our blood pressure up over a little healthy competition. Liam is young and prone to exaggeration. Why don't you tell us about your parents? I haven't seen them all evening."

It was a classic Vanessa move: the tactical pivot. She was giving everyone a graceful exit, but Preston was too wounded to take it.

"My parents are in London, Aunt Vanessa," Preston snapped, regaining some of his haughty composure but still glaring at Liam. "They’re closing a multi-million dollar merger. They don't have the luxury of sitting around doing nothing all day, being served by a live-in houseboy who plays dress-up once a quarter."

The jab at Liam's status as a "stay-at-home husband" brought a round of uncomfortable titters from the older relatives. Vanessa’s smile faltered, her face tightening at the reminder of her son-in-law’s perceived uselessness.

"What on earth is all this noise?"

A hush fell over the room as a heavy, rhythmic thud echoed against the marble. Dame Beatrice, the matriarch of the Montgomerys, was approaching. She was leaning on an ornate cane, flanked by two assistants. Her face was a map of deep lines and old secrets, her eyes sharp and unforgiving.

Preston’s face lit up. He practically sprinted to her side, offering his arm with an unctuous flourish. "Grandmother! We were just discussing the merits of proper tailoring versus... well, theatrical props."

Dame Beatrice looked at her favorite grandson with a flicker of affection, her wrinkled face softening into a smile. But as her gaze drifted toward Serena and then landed on Liam, the warmth evaporated. She had never hidden her disdain for the man she considered a stain on the family’s pedigree. To her, Liam was a variable that should have been eliminated years ago.

"The room is for business and family unity, not for squabbling like children," the old woman declared, her voice raspy but carrying the weight of absolute law. "If the guests have all arrived, then we shall proceed. I will not have the evening ruined by trivialities."

She turned, her cane striking the floor with finality, and led the way toward the grand dining hall. Preston shot Liam one last look of pure vitriol before following her like a loyal hound.

The banquet was a lavish affair. The long mahogany table was laden with delicacies—imported oysters, wagyu beef seared to perfection, and wines that cost more per bottle than Liam’s moped. Yet, the atmosphere remained strained.

Liam sat at his assigned place, tucked away toward the end of the table. The moment the signal for the feast was given, he didn't wait for polite conversation or the "proper" sequence of appetizers. He was hungry, and the food was excellent. He began to eat with a focused, efficient intensity, ignoring the judgmental stares of his tablemates.

Serena and Vanessa sat nearby, periodically shooting him looks of intense embarrassment. To them, his appetite was just another sign of his lack of breeding. But Liam didn't care. In the world he actually inhabited—the world of the Livingston Dynasty—power wasn't about which fork you used; it was about who owned the table.

As the dessert course was being served, Dame Beatrice cleared her throat. The room went silent. This was the moment of the "state of the union" address for the family.

"Before we conclude," the old woman began, her eyes scanning the room, "I have received word from a very reliable source regarding Zenith Media. It appears the winds of change are blowing through the Industry Titan."

A murmur of interest swept through the table. Zenith Media was the white whale for the Montgomerys. Their smaller advertising and production houses had been trying to secure a contract with the media giant for years, only to be rebuffed at every turn.

"The word is," Dame Beatrice continued, a glint of ambition in her eyes, "that the previous leadership has been purged. A new CEO has been appointed—a young man, reportedly no older than Preston. He takes the helm tomorrow morning."

The room erupted in frantic speculation.

"A new CEO? That changes everything!"

"We need to get a meeting immediately. If we can lock in a distribution deal with Zenith, our quarterly profits would triple overnight."

Everyone knew the stakes. Zenith Media was a subsidiary of the Livingston empire. To work with them was to be connected to the true architects of the global economy.

Liam paused, a piece of cheesecake halfway to his mouth. He looked up, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. He hadn't expected his grandmother-in-law to be so well-informed. The "young man" she was referring to was currently sitting at her table, being judged for the way he ate his salad.

Dame Beatrice raised her hand for silence. "This is a pivotal moment for us. I am looking for someone to lead the delegation to meet this new CEO. This is not a task for the timid. It requires poise, business acumen, and the ability to represent the Montgomery name with dignity. Whoever secures a contract with Zenith Media will be hailed as a hero of this family. I will see to it that they are rewarded beyond their expectations."

"I'll go!"

"Grandmother, let me handle it! I know their VP of Sales!"

"I’ve already drafted a proposal!"

Serena felt a surge of ambition. She knew she was more than capable of handling the negotiation. She had the vision and the drive. But as she looked around the table, she saw the wall of male cousins and uncles who had already blocked her path. She bit her lip and stayed silent, the "Dream Lover" around her neck feeling suddenly very heavy.

Dame Beatrice’s eyes moved across the faces of her kin, finally landing on Preston, who was sitting upright, his face glowing with a sense of destiny.

The old woman patted Preston’s hand. "This is a man’s game, and it requires a certain... presence. Preston, I am entrusting this to you. Do not let me down. I want that contract signed by the end of the week."

"You have my word, Grandmother," Preston beamed, throwing a triumphant, sneering glance toward Serena and Liam. "I’ll have the new CEO eating out of the palm of my hand before the first meeting is over. He’s just some young kid; he won't know what hit him."

Liam let out a soft, involuntary chuckle. He quickly covered it with a napkin, dabbing his mouth.

Eating out of your hand, huh? he thought, his mind already drifting to the executive suite he would be occupying tomorrow. I certainly hope you bring an appetite for disappointment, cousin.

The meeting broke up shortly after. The ride home was a quiet one. Vanessa was busy on her phone, likely calculating the potential dividends of a Zenith deal. Serena stared out the window at the passing lights of the city, her mind a whirlwind of missed opportunities and the strange, conflicting behavior of her husband.

As Liam steered the car back toward the Harborview Penthouses, he felt the weight of the upcoming week. The game was finally beginning in earnest.