[Edward POV]
"Don't pout. I don't want to take you too, but I have no other choice."
My date for the gala was pouting, crossing her arms and tapping her foot lightly while Yuri helped apply makeup to her face. A hairstylist was working on her hair simultaneously.
Maggie, dressed in an elegant red dress that perfectly matched her fiery hair, complained, "I was basically kidnapped from my house by your bodyguard!"
"Because you're still asleep even when it's noon!" I snapped back. "And you said yes anyway. She only did that because we didn't have much time to get there."
Maggie grumbled and exhaled disgruntledly. Her mind pieced some information together as she checked her watch. "Doesn't London have an eight-hour time difference with LA? It's already noon here. The gala has probably already started there."
She added, "The flight will take around eight hours to get there. Maybe four or five on your jet, so I don't think we can make it in time. Or is that your actual plan?"
I smirked. "Who said we're going to need five hours? We can make it in one."
Maggie rolled her eyes mockingly. "Sure. Let me finish my hair, and we'll teleport over there, Superman."
"Hey! Superman doesn't teleport!" I snapped.
Then, thinking out loud, I said, "Maybe if I were Lex Luthor, I might have figured out teleportation. First, create a pocket dimension, then build gates all around the world that connect countries to it. Use those to travel smoothly."
Maggie rolled her eyes again, prompting Yuri to scold, "Please stop doing that. I'm doing your eyes now."
"Ah. Sorry," Maggie said bashfully and sat upright again.
In ten minutes, Maggie was finally ready. I, too, donned a dashing black tuxedo for the gala.
The Hope and Humanity Gala was held at the Dorchester Hotel, London — a refined event gathering the world's most influential figures to raise funds for groundbreaking medical research.
They held the Gala because of the Aids cure that had been found.
"I'm still not convinced that the wealthy elite wanted to do this out of the goodness of their heart. It must be for tax purposes, right Edward?" Maggie jeered, also attacking me in the process.
I replied casually, "You don't think that the world's wealthiest would want to eradicate the disease that made them think twice before fiddling with someone else's junk?"
Maggie widened her eyes in realization. "Ah, they can finally have the risk free orgy they wanted." She mocked.
I nodded before bursting into laughter together with Maggie.
Yuri calmly burst out bubble and let us face the harsh truth, "That might be what normal people think what you always doing, both of you."
Maggie: …
Me: …
The jet arrived at 12.15. It landed on my helicopter pad with a vertical landing. Mr Han, my android in charge of researching interstellar travel, was the one driving the plane.
Maggie was astonished when she saw the sleek, cool plane that looked like a futuristic shuttle.
"Miss Maggie, I hope you're prepared. The flight profile involves a vertical launch, exiting the atmosphere, and a suborbital hop to London." Han said with a cool expression. Maggie was bashful when she saw her, blushing slightly and brushing her hair behind her ear.
I sighed inwardly, wondering why she kept falling for my androids. First it was Jin, now it was Han. Although I have to admit, they were a looker.
Maggie's eyes went wide. "Wait, you mean we're flying straight to space?"
I chuckled and leaned closer, "Afraid already? Don't worry, it's smoother than you think."
She shot me a suspicious glance.
"Here's the science, simply put," I continued. "Our ship climbs vertically to about 100 kilometers — that's the edge of space, the Kármán line. At that altitude, there's almost no air resistance. The Earth spins beneath us, so instead of racing around, we just coast with it."
Maggie blinked, astonished. "So, you mean... the Earth's rotation actually helps us get to London faster?"
"Exactly. It's like hopping on a moving sidewalk in the sky."
We entered the shuttle and wore seatbelts when we sat on the comfy seats.
The engines hummed softly as the sleek shuttle vibrated beneath us.
FWOOSH!
The shuttle flew upward without making a sound. It used an anti-gravity force field paired with my new rocket engine to slingshot us right to the orbit.
The city's skyscrapers shrank rapidly, then disappeared under a quilt of clouds. We would've died from the G-force if not for the inertia dampener on the shuttle.
Outside the window, the sky faded from blue to a deep, endless black. Stars glittered with impossible clarity.
Maggie screamed silently, then she was stunned when she looked outside the window. Her body floated from the seat because of the weak gravity, and she took off the belt to start floating around.
"Edward! LOOK! I'm an astronaut!" She said, her dress fluttering around the space.
I took off my belt too and floated with her.
Maggie pressed her forehead against the glass, her breath fogging the cool surface. "Wow. I need to put this on my Instagram."
"Don't. It's not exactly legal yet to use this method of transportation, so keep it a secret for now." I told her.
Maggie nodded and gleamed in wonder as she took pictures of space with her phone. She couldn't post it, but she could savor the moment for herself.
The shuttle arced gracefully over the planet, Earth's curvature stretching below us. The sun glinted off distant oceans as London's spires came into view, glowing beneath the twilight.
"Should we go faster boss?" Han asked.
"We should." I replied.
Han got excited and he activated the cruiser engine, so rather than taking 40 minutes to coast, it took only 20 minutes to get to the London Sky.
"Starting the descent now. The helicopter is ready, so it's going to bring you straight to the Dorchester Hotel." He said as he started the descending process.
Maggie and I returned to our seats and buckled up. As we descended back into the atmosphere, the plane shook, but not for long. The descent also took some time.
In total, we spent 50 minutes getting to London from Palisades, and 10 more inside the helicopter.
"We really got to London in an hour." Maggie was astonished when we landed on the hotel rooftop.
Reporters and photographers were waiting there too, despite the red carpet being held in the ground floor entrance.
"Mr Newgate! A question!" They rushed towards me, pushing microphones towards my face. The security there immediately blocked them from getting closer.
"How do you feel when you found the cure to AIDS!"
"What inspired you to do that?!"
"Did your company steal research from other researchers and paint the achievement as your sole work?!"
I ignored all of them, only replying with, "I'm already late to the Gala. I'll answer your questions later."
Some questions were directed to Maggie, asking her about the success of the Hunger Game and the Amazing Spiderman. She smiled politely and answered similarly to me.
However, one question made us stop in our tracks.
"Are you dating her right now?! Is she your new girlfriend?" An obnoxious french reporter asked.
Both of our faces twisted in disgust.
"Ewww… We're cousins."
We said it at the same time.
Some people laughed at the question, as the knowledge was already quite public.
"Well, Angelina Jolie kissed her own brother before…" the reporter tried to defend themselves to the others while Maggie and I entered the hotel.
Inside the Dorchester ballroom, the air shifted. Cool, perfumed, and quiet — the kind of quiet money buys. The ballroom had been transformed for the Hope and Humanity Gala: velvet curtains the color of rich wine, golden chandeliers, and a soft orchestra playing something orchestral and forgettable in the background.
Round tables were arranged in a wide crescent around a central stage. I made my way through the seating area, taking a seat near the center of the stage, catching a few curious glances.
"Why did they put us in the middle?" Maggie whispered, slightly embarrassed by the giggles she heard and the fingers pointing at us.
"God, we're seated right next to the Royal Family table," I muttered in disbelief.
The auction items rested in soft pools of light on the stage — a handwritten David Bowie lyric sheet, a glass sculpture from Murano, a silent auction envelope for a villa stay in Corsica, and a one-on-one tennis match with Rafael Nadal himself.
It was a curious display of power.
Tilda Swinton stood near the champagne bar, her presence as enigmatic as ever. David Beckham sat mid-room, legs crossed, nodding politely.
Emma Watson was speaking gently to the Emir of a small oil-rich nation, her expression somewhat strained. She glanced at me briefly before returning her attention to the auction.
I sat at the same table with a man I didn't recognize and a few others I did — including the Mayor of London, surrounded by various important VIPs from across Europe.
Maggie tugged quietly on my sleeve and whispered as I turned to her, "This is so uncomfortable."
"You got that right," I agreed. I didn't want to be here either. But the seating was arranged by the organizer, so we had no choice.
"Here is your paddle. You raise it if you want to bid, and you can shout out your new bid—"
I cut off the hotel manager with a smile. "Don't worry. I got this." My paddle bore the number 007. I'd requested it and was feeling smug about it. Maggie rolled her eyes as I showed it to her.
"The next item, number 008: Dinner for two at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant, where Chef Ramsay will cook for you personally," the auctioneer announced, unveiling the invitation card resting on a velvet pillow.
We had missed dinner and all of the speeches by coming late to the Gala. Although the waitresses were kind enough to serve us some pastry and tea.
"Do you want that item?" whispered the person next to me, the stranger.
I shook my head. "No. I have my eyes on something else."
I turned and shook his hand. "Hi. I'm Edward Newgate."
"Nice to meet you, Sir Newgate. I'm Baroness Martha Vine," she replied with a sweet smile, unconcerned with formalities.
I blinked slightly at the name. I'd never seen her face before — it had been struck from every official record — but this sweet, smiling elderly lady was the former MI6 director.
To be seated alongside the current Mayor of London, she clearly still wielded some influence.
"Nice to meet you, Baroness," I said before turning back to the auction.
A billionaire casually bid on the item. The price had started at £6,000 and was now over £24,000.
"£35,000, sold to the gentleman in the red coat, paddle number 202," the auctioneer declared, banging his gavel.
The first thirty items were all basic fare. Some were celebrity experiences or memorabilia — a football lesson from Beckham, a book club with Emma Watson, an original Banksy painting, prop items from Harry Potter and The Matrix, and more.
I joined the bidding at number 12, though I didn't win. Apparently, whenever I raised my paddle, almost everyone else did too, trying to outbid me.
A pair of glasses from The Matrix sold for £150,000 after I raised the paddle at £10,000.
When the next item came up, a hotel staff member whispered to me, "The Sheikh wants to send the item over to you as a gift."
"Ah, that explains it," Maggie gasped, realizing why people had been so eager to outbid me.
"Oh. Tell him thanks," I said, forcing a smile as I turned and waved at the Sheikh. He laughed and gestured that the item was a gift.
The former MI6 director leaned in and said in a clipped, refined English accent, "One of his sons had AIDS. He was quite the ladies' man before the illness took hold. The Sheikh is immensely grateful to you for discovering the cure. He wishes to gift you the football clubs he owns."
I grimaced but asked calmly, "And how did my work affect you, madam? It must've been something powerful to bring you out of your reclusive ways."
She nodded. "Indeed. You cured my daughter. It's been so long since I saw her smile."
"So you're going to give me a football club, too?" I teased.
She shot me a sharp look. "I've heard you're bold. Quite refreshing to see it firsthand. But no, I lack the wealth to offer such a gift. You'll have to settle for earning a favor from the former MI6 director — which, I daresay, you've already guessed."
I chuckled. "Yes, I have."
My eyes turned to the auction before my brows suddenly furrowed in realization. "Wait. When you called me 'Sir' before, that was just a tongue slip, right?"
She only smirked and didn't reply.
The auction continued. It was finally time for the mid-level items.
Number 31: Original Script Pages Handwritten by Sir Kenneth Branagh,
from his iconic Henry V or Hamlet productions — annotated with personal notes and sketches, signed on each page.
I bid on that, which led to another Asian billionaire buying it for £240,000.
Number 32: Mughal-Era Emerald Signet Ring
It went for £350,000.
Number 33: Classical Greek Bronze Figurine (~300 BC)
I didn't want it, but Maggie raised her paddle. Then, the same reactions happened with the billionaires. I guess they would get to me through Maggie.
It was sold for £120,000.
She loved the attention and even decided to bid on the next item — my original work, a golden necklace.
Maggie almost screwed up, since there was no chance the billionaires were going to buy my own item to give it back to me. Fortunately, she bid early, and someone else picked it up afterward.
It went for £1,100,000 — an outrageously high price for a mid-level item.
A rich widower from France bought it. She also winked at me, which made me shudder.
"No one had any manners today," the Baroness commented, sighing at the atmosphere inside the hall. Even the Royal Family had joined in the fun and were making quite a bit of noise.
Number 36: A N– Night Stroll with Game of Thrones Actress, Emilia Clarke.
The auctioneer stuttered — even he was shocked to see the item there. Everyone turned to Emilia, who was so embarrassed her face turned bright red.
Her item was supposed to be listed at the start of the event, even before Emma Watson's. It was originally priced in the £3,000–£6,000 range — not when item prices had already reached the millions.
Placing her deep in the auction raised the item's visibility… but also created confusion among the bidders.
"Ed! Do something," Maggie whispered, looking at Emilia with extreme pity.
I raised my paddle and said in a crisp, loud voice, "Five million pounds."
The ballroom went silent for a moment. No one raised a paddle — they were too stunned.
"S–Sold!" the auctioneer said quickly, eager to move on from the awkward mistake.
"Five million?" the Mayor of London echoed, shocked.
Maggie raised her chin smugly, like she was the one who had bid on the item.
I smiled and explained casually, "Well, it's for a good cause."
I had already prepared to spend big at the auction. With the guests blocking my earlier bids, I decided to throw some of that money into a single item since I finally had the perfect chance.
I had allocated £50 million for the auction today — and I would've donated it even without buying anything.
…
The auction continued and the last item was a 18th-Century Fabergé Egg, which was sold for 5.1 Million pounds, which is around 8 million dollars.
The billionaires sent me the gifts outright, and the Sheikh pulled me into a private conversation, wanting to give me the football club he owned.
It was a mid-tier football club in Europe. I thought it was an obscure team—imagine my shock when he told me it was Newcastle United.
A club with over a hundred years of history, iconic black-and-white kits, and a stadium that could swallow fifty thousand people.
They weren't one of the giants like Manchester United or Real Madrid, but they were no small fry either. They have loyal fans, deep roots, and in a city that bled football.
Owning a football club sounded like something only oil tycoons or retired Russian oligarchs did, but apparently, now it was mine. The Sheikh didn't own it very long, just a couple days after the cure was found.
He bought it for 180 million dollars, just to give it to me. Maggie couldn't close her mouth for a while after hearing the figure.
I learned quickly how clubs like this made their money. Most of it came from broadcasting rights—Premier League games were watched all over the world, and the league split the revenue among the teams.
Then came matchday revenue– ticket sales, food, drinks, hospitality. And of course, merchandise—shirts, scarves, mugs with the players' faces on them.
Sponsorships were another big one. Big brands paid millions just to slap their logo across the players' chests. There were also smaller deals—training kits, stadium naming rights, even the sleeve of the shirt had its price.
Managing it wasn't hard. I didn't need to run the day-to-day.
There was a board, a sporting director, coaches, scouts. I could hire people to run the business while I handled the vision. With the right CEO and manager, I didn't have to burn money endlessly.
Of course, there were costs—player salaries, transfer fees, upkeep of the stadium—but it wasn't a money pitt.
If done right, the club could sustain itself. A few smart signings, a top-half league finish, and maybe a run in the European competitions—and the value of the club would climb.
I met with Emilia Clarke after talking with the Sheikh.
"Thank you so much for your kind gesture. I don't know how to repay you," she said, her face blushing slightly as she grinned.
I smiled back and said, "Just so you don't feel obligated to repay me, I'll be honest—I'd already allocated some money to donate to the auction. Your item just gave me the chance to do that. So, thank you too."
Emilia became increasingly bashful during our short conversation. Emma Watson glared at us from afar, huffed angrily, and stomped away.
We set the night stroll for tomorrow. I told her she didn't have to do it, but she made it seem like we had no choice in the matter. The news about the auction had already leaked to the press.
In less than a few hours, people knew several details about what had happened inside—even though the event was supposed to be private.
The hotel manager personally came to apologize to everyone. A leak like that ruined the hotel's reputation almost instantly.
I managed to avoid the reporters again and flew to my house in Manchester. It was the one used by the psychopath in my series Psychopath Diary, and I bought it for myself afterward.
"Why don't we just fly back to LA? It'll only take an hour, right?" Maggie asked in confusion.
"It doesn't work in the opposite direction—also, I need to visit the club and settle the deal. The Baroness also asked me to stay for a few days because the Queen of England wants to meet me—"
Maggie immediately stood up and tried to run. "Bye—"
I caught her by the back collar and said, "Oh no, you don't."