The morning air in Queens carried the sharp bite of late winter. Michael stood on the corner with his resume folder tucked under his arm, staring at the Help Wanted signs taped to shop windows.
Three interviews. Three rejections. All before noon.
The first had been a bookstore. The manager glanced at his degree, then at his clothes, and shook his head. "Overqualified. You'll leave the moment something better comes along."
The second was a delivery company. Michael aced their test on route efficiency—of course he did, he knew FedEx would dominate logistics—but the supervisor frowned. "No experience. We can't risk it."
The third, a dingy office job, hadn't even let him finish speaking before telling him the position had already been filled.
By the time he sank onto a bench outside a subway station, Michael's folder felt heavier than bricks.
So this is what the old Michael went through, he thought, watching pedestrians rush past. Day after day of hope, only to be kicked back down.
He rubbed his temples. With less than $400 in savings, time wasn't on his side. He couldn't wait years for stock investments to bloom. He needed an edge. Something immediate.
As he sat there, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. A man in a sharp suit stepped out, adjusting his tie with practiced ease. Behind him, two women in shimmering evening gowns emerged, their laughter bright and careless.
Michael blinked. It wasn't even noon, yet they looked dressed for a movie premiere.
Then he saw it: a banner across the street, draped over the awning of a grand hotel.
"East-West Business Association Annual Gala – Members & Guests Only."
Michael's heart skipped. He knew the name. The Association was small now, but within a decade it would become a major bridge between immigrant entrepreneurs and American corporations. Deals forged here would ripple through industries for years.
He stood, pulse quickening.
This is it. My doorway.
But then reality hit: he was in scuffed shoes, an off-the-rack jacket, and a tie that had seen better days. His resume folder felt like a joke compared to the polished leather briefcases going through those hotel doors.
Still… what was reincarnation for, if not audacity?
Inside the hotel lobby, chandeliers glittered above marble floors. Waiters in crisp uniforms carried trays of champagne flutes. Guests mingled, their laughter blending with the soft strains of a live jazz band.
Michael hovered near the entrance, trying to look like he belonged. His palms were sweaty, but he forced a casual smile onto his face.
The security guard eyed him. "Invitation?"
Michael's mind raced. Lying outright was risky. Bluffing, though… bluffing was an art.
He tapped his temple as if annoyed. "Ah, my cousin was supposed to meet me here with the passes. Late, as always." He sighed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "If I miss this, my uncle will chew both our ears off. He's sponsoring the Association this year—you know how he is."
The guard frowned, uncertainty flickering. Michael seized the moment, straightening his shoulders and adjusting his tie like a man too important to be questioned.
"Look," he added with a hint of irritation, "if it's really an issue, call Mr. Wong upstairs and let him know one of his guests is stuck outside. I'll wait."
The guard paled at the name. Everyone in the immigrant business circle knew Mr. Wong—half-legend, half-tyrant. The last thing the guard wanted was to anger a patron over a guest list technicality.
With a grunt, he stepped aside. "Fine. Go on."
Michael strolled through the doors, heart hammering, every step a victory march.
Note to self, he thought with a grin. Confidence opens more doors than keys.
The ballroom was a sea of wealth. Men in tailored suits clinked glasses, women in jeweled dresses exchanged air-kisses. At the far end, a stage stood ready for speeches, draped in velvet.
Michael snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray, swirling it like he'd done it all his life. He tried to look unimpressed, though inside he marveled at the scene.
These people have no idea what the future holds. Some of them will be bankrupt by the dot-com crash. Others will become millionaires. And me? I'll be the one pulling strings.
He drifted toward a group of older businessmen discussing shipping routes. Every word was familiar; he'd studied this history in detail.
"…problem with longshoremen strikes…"
"…air freight costs too high…"
Michael smiled politely, interjecting at just the right moment. "Actually, the shift toward integrated logistics networks will resolve most of those issues. Air, sea, and land coordination—it's the only sustainable path."
They turned, surprised. One raised an eyebrow. "And you are…?"
Michael extended a hand confidently. "Michael Chen. Consulting. I focus on emerging efficiencies in distribution."
The lie rolled off his tongue like silk.
The men exchanged curious looks. His youth was suspicious, but his words carried weight. Michael pressed on, tossing out tidbits from the future—UPS's coming expansions, FedEx's overnight dominance, the eventual pivot to digital tracking systems.
Within minutes, they were nodding thoughtfully, jotting notes. Michael sipped his champagne, hiding a grin.
First impressions: success.
But as he turned from the group, scanning the room, his gaze snagged on a figure at the entrance.
She stepped in as if the room had been waiting for her—tall, graceful, with dark hair cascading over a crimson dress that shimmered under the chandeliers. Her features carried the sharp beauty of her Chinese heritage, softened by the confidence of someone who had never known true want.
The murmurs in the room shifted subtly, acknowledging her presence. Heads turned. Eyes lingered.
Vivian Wu.
Michael nearly dropped his glass. He knew the name. The Wu family had immigrated with wealth intact, investing early in real estate and import-export. By the 2000s, they would be worth billions.
And here was their daughter, radiant and untouchable, scanning the room with cool poise.
Michael exhaled slowly.
So this is how our paths cross.
He had planned to observe quietly, build connections step by step. But fate—or perhaps sheer narrative irony—had just thrown him into the orbit of the woman who would shape his future in ways he couldn't yet predict.