New York, Manhattan.
The winter wind blew cold along Park Avenue, rattling the glass panes of the Smiths' penthouse. Inside, the lights glowed warmly, bouncing off polished marble floors and framed photographs of a family that—at least on the surface—looked perfect.
"Sir, you're back."
The nanny stepped forward, taking a leather briefcase from Auston Blake's hand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with silver already threading through his hair. His tailored coat was soaked from the drizzle outside, his expression set in a tight, stormy line. The nanny hesitated. She had worked for this family long enough to know when not to linger. She carried the briefcase away, then quietly slipped into the kitchen.
"Madam," she whispered to the woman standing at the counter, slicing vegetables with effortless grace, "your husband looks… very upset tonight."
Isabelle Blake—elegant, poised, with the kind of timeless beauty that cameras loved—looked up from her task. A faint crease formed between her brows. She set down the knife, rinsed her hands, and headed toward the living room.
She found her husband exactly where she expected: seated stiffly on the leather sofa, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between his fingers, smoke curling upward despite the fact that he knew she hated the smell.
"Auston," Isabelle said quietly, folding her arms. "We agreed—no work stress in the house. What happened this time?"
Her husband exhaled sharply, stubbing the cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary. "What happened? What always happens. Your precious son."
"Adrian?" Isabelle's frown deepened. "I spoke to him earlier this week. He sounded fine. What's going on?"
Auston ran a hand down his face, his frustration bubbling. "Fine? He mortgaged his house in Los Angeles. He leveraged his book copyrights. Then he borrowed six million dollars and dumped every last cent into the stock market. The boy has lost his mind."
The words hit Isabelle like a blow. She sank down onto the sofa beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for the ashtray to carry it to the balcony. "Six million? All into the market? Adrian doesn't know the first thing about stocks! What was he thinking?"
"I don't know," Auston snapped, though his anger was laced with worry. "But I'll be damned if I let him drag the Blake name into some reckless gamble. He's too young to understand how quickly fortunes vanish."
Before Isabelle could respond, Auston was already pulling out his phone, dialing his son's number. Isabelle caught his wrist gently. "Let me talk to him."
The line connected after two rings. Adrian's voice came through, steady but weary. "Mom?"
"Adrian Blake," Isabelle burst out, her composure cracking. "How could you do this? A mortgage? Your copyrights? Millions in stocks? What on earth possessed you?"
Adrian sighed, leaning back in his chair in Los Angeles. He had known this call would come. "Mom, please. Listen. Don't panic. I know what I'm doing. Just… let me explain."
An hour later, after endless explanations, reassurances, and half-answers, Adrian ended the call and set the phone down with a heavy exhale. His temples throbbed. He stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
This was the United States. He was an adult. His money, his property, his choices. His parents might not approve, but they couldn't stop him. Still, facing their disappointment left a bitter taste in his mouth.
If he had been back in his old life—in another country, another time—his parents might have beaten sense into him. Here, he simply had to endure their anger.
Back in New York, Isabelle lowered the phone slowly, her expression pale. She rubbed her hands together nervously. "Auston, it's over eight million, counting his own savings. Even with all we have, that kind of risk… I can't stand it."
Auston paced, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the marble. "I told you. I told you letting him stay in Los Angeles was a mistake. Hollywood has ruined him. He should've gone to NYU, stayed close, learned discipline. Instead, you pushed for USC, and he didn't even finish. He's wasting away out there, letting tabloids drag his name through the mud. Now this!"
"Enough!" Isabelle slammed her hand down on the coffee table, the sharp crack silencing the room. Her eyes blazed, though her voice was calm. "Are you finished blaming me? He's not a child anymore. He's making his own decisions, for better or worse. You don't get to keep pretending you can control him."
Auston froze, the anger draining into embarrassment. His carefully combed hair slipped loose over his forehead as he stood awkwardly, caught in his wife's glare.
Isabelle shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Honestly, Auston. You should stop panicking. Think about it—Adrian's analysis isn't wrong. You've met Steve Jobs yourself. You know as well as I do that the man is a visionary. If Adrian believes in Apple, maybe he sees something we don't."
Auston grunted, rolling his eyes as he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. "What does a twenty-one-year-old know about markets?"
"What did Jobs know when he was twenty-one?" Isabelle shot back lightly. Then, softening, she reached for his hand. "Our son's grown up. He's going to make mistakes. But what if he's right? What if this is the start of something bigger?"
Auston sighed heavily, squeezing her hand. He didn't reply. He didn't have to.
"Come on," Isabelle said, standing and smoothing her blouse. "Dinner's ready. Let's eat. Worrying won't change anything."
Los Angeles, midnight.
The villa was quiet except for the low hum of the projector in the movie room. Adrian lay sprawled on the sofa, dressed in pajamas, a half-empty glass of ice wine balanced precariously on the table beside him. Onscreen, a James Bond film flickered, the sharp sound of gunfire echoing faintly through the speakers.
He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and shut off the projector. The room fell into silence. For a moment, he sat there, the cool glass of wine in his hand grounding him. His life had shifted so violently in such a short time that sometimes it still felt unreal, as though he were dreaming someone else's dream.
He poured another drink, savoring the sweetness. Wine-tasting culture, connoisseurs, pairings—he didn't care. He just wanted the sharp, cold taste that proved he was alive.
Morning sunlight streamed across the villa, pouring into the music room where a white grand piano gleamed. Adrian sat before it, his fingers dancing over the keys. The familiar melody of "Für Elise" filled the room, rich and clear.
He hadn't practiced seriously in years, but the muscle memory remained, buried deep. Playing now, he felt an odd sense of peace, as though the fragments of his two lives were finally settling into place.
When the last note faded, he closed the lid, stretched, and headed into the kitchen. A sandwich, a glass of milk, a clean table—it was simple, but it reminded him of discipline. Of control. He was starting to find both again.
After breakfast, he wandered into the gym. State-of-the-art machines gleamed under soft lights, weights neatly stacked, mirrors reflecting his still-too-thin frame. He hesitated, then stepped onto the treadmill. Without a trainer, he dared not push further. His body was recovering, but recklessness could break it again.
Later, as the shower's hot water sluiced away sweat, Adrian laughed at himself. He was changing. Slowly, surely, he was becoming American again, inside and out. No more quirks that made him stand out. He would blend in, play the role, live the life.
Integration was survival. In this city, standing apart wasn't boldness—it was weakness.
By mid-morning, Adrian was back in the study. Coffee in hand, he booted up his computer. The market ticker blinked across the screen.
Apple at $50.60. Dropping.
"Good enough," he murmured, fingers poised over the keyboard.
He began buying, not all at once, but in blocks, sweeping up shares quietly, systematically. Millions gone in minutes, his account transformed. When it was done, he leaned back, heart pounding.
"All right," he whispered. "Now I wait."
Patience was the hardest part. But he had time. He had conviction. And he had a plan.
The rest of the day passed in words. The manuscript on his screen grew steadily, line by line. "Maleficent" neared completion, the bones of "Snow White and the Huntsman" already forming in his notes. He worked with an intensity he hadn't felt in years, driven by equal parts ambition and vengeance.
His publisher had doubted him, mocked him even. The representative had sneered to Carl that Adrian Blake was a wasted name, a relic already forgotten.
Adrian smiled coldly at the thought. We'll see who laughs when the sales roll in.
He wasn't vengeful by nature, but he wasn't the type to forgive insults either. He would prove himself, not just to them, but to everyone watching.
Outside, the Los Angeles sun blazed. Inside, Adrian typed, the rhythm of the keys a steady heartbeat. For the first time in a long time, he felt it again: the thrill of building something that could last.