World's Richest Man: I Leaped Across Time

I followed Operator Liliana down the narrow, dim corridor of the yacht. The laughter and music from the deck faded behind us, leaving only the soft hum of the waves and our footsteps on polished wood. Liliana wore her emerald-green gown, its silky folds whispering as she moved.

Her hair, usually pinned back, fell in loose waves over her shoulders. It seemed like she didn't ware any make-up.

'Does she usually put on make-up to look worse?'

She stopped at a heavy mahogany door and pressed a finger to her lips.

"Don't ask questions," she whispered. "Just listen. It is great grace that he grants you this meeting."

I nodded. Liliana rapped on the door in three quick taps. A deep voice answered, and the door swung open. I stepped inside.

The room was warm and lit by a single oil lamp. Its light flickered across a long wooden table scattered with old maps, yellowed papers, and curious brass tools. At the head of the table sat the man from the auction stage. His silver hair was slicked back neatly, and he wore an old-fashioned suit with a high collar and polished shoes. He looked as if he belonged to another century, yet his eyes were calm and bright.

"Good evening, Mr. Somnus," he said, rising to greet me. His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. "Please, sit."

I took the seat across from him, and Liliana slipped back into the shadows by the door. The old man studied me kindly.

"You've done remarkably well," he began. "Your ghost investment company has grown faster than most can imagine. But I hear the FBI is still hovering, poking into your finances. You might have felt their eyes on you."

'So he knows about my ghost investment company'

I swallowed hard. What he's saying is true. FBI's investigations had eased, but never fully gone away. Files on the attacks by an unknown organization against me and my family still sat in their stacks, and I knew they looked for any misstep.

He nodded slightly, as if reading my thoughts. "I've made a few calls. You should hear good news soon." Then, with a slight smile: "No need to pay me in points. Think of it as a small gift... for your contributions."

His voice was calm, steady—like a grandfather reassuring you that the storm outside was nothing to worry about.

"Tonight," he continued, "I grant you fifty points for locating Hunter Rothschild." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. "You earned them fair and square."

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "I've watched your work with... was it Bitcoin? Seems interesting."

My breath caught. He knew about Bitcoin? A flicker of doubt crossed my mind: Does he know about my contact with Liberation? Or even about my time regression? I dared not ask.

"You grow influence for our club," he said. "That is what matters most."

"Your lawyer friend Sidorov," he added, "handled your transfers brilliantly. The billion you moved through shell companies in Switzerland, Luxembourg, and the Caymans... clean, clever, almost flawless."

I opened my eyes wider.

He waved a hand, chasing away my worries. "For now, rest well. You're closer to advancement in our club than ever. More longevity lies ahead." His voice softened. "Sleep well, and don't eat late."

A simple advice from a man who ruled in shadows and sought immortality.

This calm, grandfatherly figure seemed like he really cared about my success. At least seemed like it... he was so high up the ladder that even Soros was under him, he had had control over FBI. How much of the governement was working upon his wims.

He stood, smoothing his suit jacket. The oil lamp cast long shadows behind him. "You may ask one simple question," he offered.

I hesitated, then spoke. "How old are you?"

He laughed, a warm, rolling sound like waves on a calm sea. "Let's just say I saw President Lincoln with my own eyes."

A chill ran through me. Lincoln—Ford's Theatre in 1865… the thought that this man had lived through centuries sent a shiver down my spine.

I stood as well, overcome with respect. He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Use your points wisely," he said. "Remember: this club spans ages. We see past and future alike. If you forget where you came from, you cannot shape where you go."

Liliana stepped beside me, her emerald gown whispering again.

"Let us return." she said softly.

The door shut quietly behind me, and Liliana led me back through the narrow corridor.

We stepped into the main room. The air smelled of cigars and expensive perfume.

As I passed between the tables, a few heads turned. Whispers followed.

Emily, sitting at my table saw me coming back. "You were gone a while," she said under her breath. Her gaze searched my face, trying to read something. "How did you even know where to start with Hunter? No one in this room had a clue."

"I just followed a trail."

She stared. "Bullshit."

She stared. "Bullshit."

I turned to her, voice low but firm. "Shut it. Don't think just because you helped me with the Super PAC that you're now my friend. Unless you're ready to cut ties with Gabriel."

She blinked, taken aback. Then scoffed, almost laughing. "Pha, you're crazy," she whispered. "You know how hard I worked to get where I am? I got Evelyn to resign and walk away from her money. All of it, everything she left behind is Gabriel's now."

Her tone shifted, colder. "Mine and his fortune together... it's way beyond your imagination."

I leaned closer, eyes on hers. "Is it eight billion dollars?"

She went silent.

Just for a second.

Then she looked away, lips tightening.

I was pretty sure I'd hit it right on the nail—Gabriel's $6 billion and the worth of the Heart family's media empire. She didn't deny it.

And she didn't look me in the eye again for the rest of the night.

Late that night, I finally made it home. The city was quiet, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears. I didn't bother changing, just dropped onto the bed next to Charlotte.

Morning came fast.

Sunlight spilled through the blinds, and the scent of strong coffee drifted in from the kitchen. I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Charlotte's voice called out from down the hall. "You got mail."

I walked over to the kitchen, still in my shirt from last night.

Charlotte stood barefoot by the counter, wearing soft white pajama pants and a long-sleeved top covered in tiny flowers and little cartoon bunnies. Her hair was slightly messy from sleep, and she held a stiff envelope in one hand, her eyes locked on the bold black letters across the top.

"FBI," she said slowly and handed it to me.

I opened it carefully, unfolding the crisp paper inside.

Insufficient weight and danger. Case transferred to local police jurisdiction.

Charlotte looked at me, "Are they onto you…"

I looked at her and smiled. "Quite the opposite. We can relax for now."