The Wu townhouse on the Upper East Side stood in quiet contrast to the glittering gala halls of the previous night. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the carved banisters and polished floors. Servants moved discreetly through the halls, carrying trays of tea and steaming buns.
Vivian Wu sat at the breakfast table, her crimson nails tapping a measured rhythm against the porcelain teacup. The paper lay open in front of her, headlines blaring about mergers and market forecasts. But her mind was elsewhere.
Michael Chen.
The memory of his smirk lingered annoyingly, as if he had etched himself into the edges of her thoughts. A man who spoke boldly of futures no one dared to name, standing in a borrowed suit that somehow didn't diminish his presence.
Vivian prided herself on being a good judge of character. Men at galas usually fell into neat categories: sycophants groveling for approval, young heirs flaunting their fathers' money, or aging moguls grasping for one last deal.
But Michael hadn't fit. He had spoken as though he didn't need permission to stand there—as though the future itself had already shaken hands with him.
A small, involuntary smile curved her lips. Interesting, indeed.
Her father's voice pulled her back.
"Vivian."
Wu Tian, patriarch of the family, entered the dining room with the measured stride of a man who had built an empire with his own hands. His black hair, streaked with silver, was combed back neatly. Though his suits were never ostentatious, the weight of his presence alone commanded respect.
"Morning, Father," Vivian said smoothly.
He sat across from her, pouring tea with deliberate grace. "You seemed distracted yesterday, even at the gala. Did something happen?"
Vivian considered her words carefully. "Not something. Someone."
His brow arched. "Oh?"
She leaned back slightly, folding her arms. "A man. Young. Not from the usual circles. He claimed to see opportunities others ignored."
Her father's eyes narrowed, shrewd and calculating. "His name?"
"Michael Chen," she replied.
Wu Tian sifted through his memory, then shook his head. "No established family. Not one of the usual entrepreneurs. Likely an upstart. Did he impress you?"
Vivian hesitated. To say yes would only invite endless questions and assumptions. To say no would be dishonest.
"He was… unafraid," she said finally. "Even when Klein tried to crush him, he spoke with conviction. It reminded me of you, when you first came here."
Wu Tian chuckled softly. "Careful, daughter. Conviction without resources is only bravado. America is littered with dreamers who thought themselves prophets."
Vivian smirked. "And yet, some dreamers build empires."
Her father gave her a long look, then nodded once. "True. But the line between brilliance and folly is thin. If this Michael Chen crosses your path again, observe him. Do not get entangled."
"Of course," Vivian replied, hiding the flicker of defiance in her eyes.
Later that day, Vivian strolled down Fifth Avenue with her friend Angela, another socialite whose family dabbled in hotels. Angela chattered endlessly about fashion and gossip, but Vivian's thoughts kept circling back.
"Earth to Vivian," Angela teased, snapping her fingers. "You're not listening."
Vivian arched a brow. "I was thinking."
"About?"
Vivian considered brushing it off, but curiosity tugged harder. "Do you believe," she asked, "that some people can simply… see things the rest of us don't? As if they're already living tomorrow while we're stuck in today?"
Angela laughed. "You mean fortune tellers? You've been reading too many mystic novels."
Vivian shook her head, lips curving. "Not mystics. Strategists. People who bet on the future before anyone else dares."
Angela rolled her eyes. "Please. Most of those end up broke. It's the ones with money already who shape the future. Like your father. Like us."
"Perhaps," Vivian murmured. But Michael's words echoed in her mind: The world doesn't shrink with boats and trains—it shrinks with information.
She had never heard anyone put it that way.
That evening, alone in her study, Vivian pulled out her notebook. She had a habit—one her father secretly approved of—of recording interesting ideas and people.
She wrote:
Michael Chen.
Confident, shameless.
Predicted rise of "information" industries. Names: AOL, Microsoft, Cisco.
Not of wealthy background.
Speaks like a man with nothing to lose and everything to prove.
Worth observing.
She tapped the pen against her lips.
"Worth observing," she repeated softly.
For a woman in her position, most men tried to court or flatter her. Michael had done neither. He had simply stood there, unshaken, as though the room needed to prove itself to him.
That alone made him dangerous.
And fascinating.
The next morning, Vivian accompanied her father to his office downtown. The Wu Shipping headquarters was a modest high-rise compared to the giants of Wall Street, but it buzzed with disciplined energy. Men in suits hurried through halls, phones ringing off the hook with logistics updates.
As Vivian stepped out of the elevator, she overheard two junior managers gossiping.
"…some kid talking about investing in AOL stocks. Can you believe it?"
"…must be crazy. Internet? Nobody uses that crap except nerds."
Vivian's ears pricked. Michael.
She didn't pause or comment, but her steps slowed for half a heartbeat. So he was already moving. Already betting on the future he claimed to see.
Her lips curved into a smile as she entered her father's office.
Wu Tian glanced up from his desk. "You look amused."
Vivian smoothed her expression, placing her notebook discreetly into her bag. "Just thinking of something interesting."
Her father's eyes lingered on her, then returned to his documents.
Vivian turned to the window, the skyline stretching endlessly.
Michael Chen.
A man with audacity, vision—and perhaps, madness.
She wondered how long it would take before their paths crossed again.
Something told her it wouldn't be long.