The conference room radiated wealth. Crystal chandeliers scattered golden light across the polished mahogany table that stretched nearly the length of the room. The floor was carpeted with intricate Persian patterns, its hues of deep red and navy contrasting with the stark modern elegance of the white marble walls. Even the silence seemed expensive here—the kind of silence that swallowed nervous breaths and magnified the scrape of a chair.
Two groups faced one another across the long rectangular table. Each side carried the aura of power—men and women in crisp formal suits, cufflinks glinting, watches that cost more than some people's homes. At the heart of it all sat the representatives: an old man with thinning gray hair and weary eyes, and across from him, a man much younger—sharp, self-assured, and utterly composed.
The young representative sat with one arm resting lazily on the table, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. His gaze swept across the room, cold and calculated, dissecting every twitch of muscle, every shallow breath.
'These people… they have a subtle sense of nervousness that they're trying to hide,' he thought, lips curving faintly. 'Pathetic. They know they've already lost, but pride won't let them admit it.'
"It's been a while, Mr. Cross,"
The confident man said finally. His voice cut through the silence, smooth yet edged with quiet confidence.
The old man's lips curled faintly.
"You're right. But a deal takes time to settle, Mr. Vale."
Ryan Vale leaned back slightly, smirking at the reply as if it were the punchline of a predictable joke. Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose from his chair. Every movement of his carried control, dominance. The tension in the room shifted instantly; all eyes followed him.
"Your company," Ryan began, tone calm but razor-sharp, "is already standing on the brink of bankruptcy. Either you sell it to us now, while there's still value left to salvage… or you wait a few weeks, and we'll simply buy it from the bank."
A ripple of gasps broke from the aides at Mr. Cross's side. Their indignation was quiet but unmistakable. Ryan ignored them. His eyes, sharp as blades, cut through the table's atmosphere.
'His right hand twitched when I mentioned bankruptcy. He's terrified of losing control. The secretary won't meet my eyes—she's hiding details. And Mr. Cross… he's already accepted defeat. He just doesn't know how to say it aloud.'
Ryan tilted his head ever so slightly. "Thank you for the positive response. My secretary will handle the paperwork."
Without waiting for permission, without giving anyone room to argue, Ryan turned on his heel and strode toward the double oak doors. His polished shoes tapped against the floor with unhurried confidence—the rhythm of a man who already knew the game was won.
For a moment, the room was silent. Then the old man's secretary leaned closer, whispering urgently. "Sir… why does he think we've agreed? We didn't give him an answer."
The old man adjusted his cufflinks with slow, deliberate motions. His expression hardened as he stared at the doorway Ryan had exited through. "He saw through me."
"Sir?"
"Never take a man like Ryan Vale lightly." The old man's voice was heavy with grudging respect. "That man… he gathers information long before the meeting begins. And once he's here, he doesn't just listen to words—he reads people. Their posture. Their hesitation. Their fear."
The secretary swallowed. "So… he already knew what we were going to decide?"
"No," Mr. Cross muttered grimly. "He didn't need to. He knew what I was afraid of. That was enough."
Outside the room, Ryan's personal assistant fell into step a few paces behind him, his own thoughts guarded but heavy with awe.
'Ryan's calculations have always been right until today. Not once has he misread a room. Something surely makes him different from others. Something beyond logic.'
Ryan walked without looking back, his pace steady, unbothered. To him, the negotiation had ended before it even began.
In the basement parking lot, his sleek black car waited, polished to perfection. Its glossy surface reflected the overhead lights like liquid obsidian. The very sight of it screamed wealth and control—just like its owner.
Ryan slipped into the driver's seat. The faint scent of leather wrapped around him as he started the engine. The car purred softly, expensive and smooth, its presence commanding even in silence.
For Ryan Vale, the world was a board, and he was the one moving the pieces.
The city streets stretched ahead in a blur of neon and headlights. It was late, the traffic thinning now, though the pulse of the metropolis never truly stopped. Ryan drove smoothly, his hand steady on the wheel, the faint hum of the engine filling the silence.
His phone buzzed against the console. Without taking his eyes off the road, he tapped the hands-free button.
"You did great, as always," came a voice through the speaker—deep, seasoned, carrying the weight of age and experience. "If I send someone like you to a meeting, then the outcome is already fixed."
Ryan's lips twitched faintly, though his tone remained calm and measured. "The outcome is never fixed. I just bend the results in my favor. But there are always chances I can lose."
From the outside, his voice was smooth as glass. Inside, his thoughts burned like fire.
Why can't I just go home peacefully?! It's already night, and these filthy politicians and greedy industrialists never stop buttering me for their own profit. Just let me rest.
The man on the other end chuckled warmly. "Well, I can't argue with a person like you. And even if I try, I know I'll lose. After all, I'm speaking to the god of digits."
Ryan exhaled softly, as if trying to push away the weight of the title. "That's a strange title. And I don't think I deserve something like that."
"You underestimate your capabilities, Ryan," the politician replied, amusement still lacing his voice. "But very well, I won't keep you. My apologies—I have another matter to handle now."
The line clicked off, leaving only the faint hum of the car and the rush of air outside.
Ryan tightened his grip on the steering wheel for a moment, then slowly released it with a sigh. His eyes flicked toward the endless stretch of road, lights blurring past like fragments of forgotten memories.
"I know that some people say I'm a hard worker, some say I'm gifted…" he muttered under his breath, his voice low, meant only for himself. "But they'll never know the truth."
The thought lingered in the car like smoke. For a moment, the mask he wore every day slipped just slightly. Behind the numbers, the deals, the endless victories—there was something deeper. Something no one else could touch.
His mansion came into view soon after, towering in sleek modern design. Glass walls reflected the faint glow of the city, making the structure appear both inviting and cold—beautiful, yet distant.
Ryan pulled the car into the private garage and stepped out. The familiar scent of polished stone and expensive cologne greeted him as he entered the vast foyer. Every piece of furniture gleamed under soft lighting, every surface spotless. Yet, despite the luxury, the silence pressed in heavier than the conference room had earlier.
He loosened his tie and slipped out of his jacket, letting it fall carelessly across a velvet chair. The facade he'd worn throughout the day crumbled with every step. His shoulders slumped, his expression relaxed. No one was here to see him play the role anymore.
Crossing the wide living room, he muttered, "Sometimes I'm really fed up with this calm façade. I just want to sleep."
The bedroom was dim, shadows stretching across the floor from the faint city lights beyond the window. Ryan didn't bother with the details—he left his shoes at the edge, stripped off the remaining layers of formality, and collapsed onto the bed.
The sheets crumpled under his weight, but he didn't care. The exhaustion of the day pressed down, dragging him into darkness. His mind grew heavy, thoughts fading like embers in the night.
And then, without realizing it, Ryan Vale drifted into sleep.
Darkness wrapped him quickly. His breathing steadied, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. The burdens of the day fell away piece by piece—until the weight of the world itself vanished.
When Ryan opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
He was no longer in his dim bedroom, but standing in the middle of a vast garden. Endless stretches of flowers bloomed around him, a sea of colors so vivid they almost hurt to look at. Scarlet poppies swayed lazily beside delicate white lilies, golden marigolds shimmered under the sunlight, and lavender rolled across the horizon like waves.
The air was warm, carrying the fragrance of spring. It was light, sweet, almost intoxicating. The breeze whispered gently, brushing against his skin with a softness foreign to his usual world of steel and glass.
Ryan took a slow breath, and for the first time that day, his heart eased. Here, in this place, there was no weight of calculations, no endless bargaining, no façade he had to wear.
Here, there was only calm.
And there was a reason for that calm.
His dreams had always been like this—serene, untouched by the harshness of reality. And at the center of every one of them, she appeared. The girl who had become the reason behind his peace.
Ryan turned slowly, drinking in the scenery with quiet recognition. The dream garden no longer surprised him; he had walked here countless times. Each flower, each golden ray of light felt familiar, like an old memory revisited.
Then—
Two hands slid gently over his eyes from behind.
Ryan froze, but only for an instant. The touch was soft, delicate, and unmistakably hers. The corners of his lips tugged faintly, a rare smile brushing his face.
And when her voice whispered against his ear, light with laughter, Ryan already knew what to expect.
"You're late again."
His heart steadied at the sound, the last threads of tension leaving his body.
'There she is', Ryan thought.