"Appreciated." Stan Harrison rose from the table, unhurried.

What Stan hadn’t mentioned, and saw no reason to, was that this was precisely why he had accepted Grayson’s invitation in the first place.

When the call had come in, he had been weighing his options.

After Sophie’s request, Stan had done some research. Four Seasons Garden had been on his mind for a while: the location was ideal, the development was exceptional, and every conventional route to securing a unit had dead-ended in waiting lists and closed doors.

The moment Grayson Davies’s name appeared on his phone, Stan had recognized the solution before the man had even spoken.

He had come for the dinner, yes. But mostly, he had come for the phone call. He was rich yes, but his riches were gotten through the system, he genuinely lacks the connection most rich people possess...

The Four Seasons Garden sales office was everything the development promised, soaring ceilings, polished marble floors, and a scale model at its center that was practically a work of art in itself.

Miniature towers and manicured courtyards sat behind a low glass barrier, every detail precise enough to cast tiny shadows under the overhead lighting.

It was also, at this hour, absolutely packed.

Stan stepped inside and immediately understood the situation. Every consultant on the floor was occupied, clipboards in hand, voices low and practiced, bodies angled toward clients who had clearly been waiting for their turn.

There was no one free. No one glanced up. No one greeted him.

He didn’t take it personally. He simply drifted toward the sand table and began to look.

The model rewarded attention. He studied the layout of the plots, the way the taller buildings were positioned to preserve sightlines, the quiet logic of how the best units had been arranged relative to the greenery and the road access.

He was still working through it when a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise of the room.

"Well. If it isn’t Stan Harrison."

Stan turned.

Leo stood a few meters away with the particular expression of a man who has been waiting, consciously or not, for exactly this kind of moment. He was dressed well, flanked by nothing except his own confidence, and smiling in a way that had nothing warm in it.

Stan remembered him. The incident at the Gucci boutique had apparently left a mark, on Leo’s pride, if nothing else.

"Here to look at houses?" Leo asked, strolling closer, his tone carrying that specific brand of casual contempt that takes some practice to perfect.

"Yes," Stan said simply.

Leo clicked his tongue, letting his gaze travel over Stan with theatrical assessment. "A house here starts at over one point six million." He paused for effect. "Can you manage that?"

Stan said nothing.

Leo took the silence as confirmation of what he already believed. His smile widened.

"Last time you made quite the impression, didn’t you, clearing out a whole boutique like that." He shook his head with mock sympathy. "But that’s the thing about people who spend big to show off. Sooner or later, the wallet catches up with the ego." He tilted his head. "Looks like today’s that day."

Stan looked at him for a moment, not with anger, not with embarrassment, but with the mild, private bewilderment of someone trying to understand what would possess a person to behave this way.

He said nothing. He turned back to the model.

Leo, finding no satisfying reaction to work with, decided to escalate.

He raised a hand and caught the attention of a nearby sales consultant, one of the few who had just wrapped up with another client.

"Over here," Leo said.

The consultant approached with a professional smile. "Young Master Leo, welcome back."

Leo pointed at the sand table. His finger landed on the villa positioned at the development’s most coveted plot, elevated ground, east-facing aspect, surrounded on two sides by the landscaped reserve. Even in miniature, it was obviously the crown jewel of the entire project.

"That one," Leo said. "What are we looking at?"

The consultant’s expression flickered almost imperceptibly. "Young Master Leo, we did just go over the figures, twelve thousand per square meter, two hundred square meters. Total comes to two point four million dollars." A slight pause. "You mentioned the price felt steep."

"I’ve reconsidered." Leo said it without looking at the consultant. He was looking at Stan. "It feels just right now. Draw up the paperwork."

"Of course." The consultant nodded and stepped aside to prepare the documents.

Leo turned back to Stan with the satisfaction of a man who had just made his point in the most expensive way available to him.

"Funny, isn’t it?" he said. "Last time you were the one making a scene, buying out the whole women’s floor like it meant something." He gestured lightly at the model, at the sales office, at the general grandeur of their surroundings. "But this is a different game. You bought some clothes. I just bought a house." He let that sit for a second. "Still feeling bold?"

Stan Harrison looked at the model. Then he looked at Leo.

There was no anger on his face. No wounded pride, no urge to explain himself. Just a quiet, genuine puzzlement, the kind that comes not from confusion about the situation, but from trying and failing to find any logic in another person’s behavior.

’How,’ Stan sighed, ’does someone this committed to their own foolishness get through the day?’

He didn’t say it. He simply clasped his hands behind his back and returned his attention to the sand table, waiting patiently for someone on the staff to become available.

He was in no hurry. He had a name to give them.

And something told him that when he gave it, the atmosphere in this room was going to shift considerably.

Looking at Leo’s smug face, Stan shook his head slowly, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips.

’What a dumbass...’

For a moment, he just stared at him, the faintest trace of disappointment settling in his eyes.