The eastern grounds had always been quieter.
That was where he noticed the markers.
Thin wooden stakes dotted the open field, their tops painted bright orange. Small flags fluttered in the breeze, marking lines that only existed on paper. The measuring tape had been strung between several points, sagging slightly under its own weight. Beyond that, the land remained untouched—grass undisturbed, soil unbroken.
No machines. No noise. Just an outline.
His father was waiting near the center of the field, coat buttoned neatly, hands clasped behind his back. He stood upright, facing the estate as if evaluating it from a distance.
"You remember this place?" his father asked without turning around.
Henry nodded. "You used to bring me here when I was younger."
"To walk," his father said. "To think."
He finally turned, eyes briefly scanning the markers before settling on Henry.
"This is where the expansion will be," he continued. "The palace. It won't disrupt the main house. That was important for your grandfather."
Henry glanced around again. "It's big."
"It has to be," his father replied calmly. "Symbols lose meaning if they're modest."
They walked slowly along the edge of the field. The cold air carried the faint scent of damp earth, the kind that came just before snow.
"You know," his father said, "people think wealth is about accumulation. It isn't. It's about continuity."
Henry remained silent.
"A family like ours," his father went on, "is not measured by what it owns at any given moment, but by what it sustains across generations. Structures matter. Systems matter. They outlast individuals."
He stopped near one of the markers and nudged it lightly with the toe of his shoe.
"These stakes," he said, "don't look like much. But they define everything that will follow. Once the foundation is poured, nothing can move without consequence."
Henry understood the metaphor immediately.
"I know you're capable of that kind of thinking," his father continued. "You always have been. You see patterns. You understand risk. You know how to actually think, far more terrifying than anyone I've ever met."
Henry met his father's gaze. "That doesn't mean it's the only thing I can do."
"No," his father agreed. "But it is the thing you're best at."
They resumed walking.
"When you were younger," his father said, "you treated numbers the way other children treated blocks. You could sit for hours, rearranging figures, testing outcomes. That isn't common. It's a talent."
Henry smiled faintly. "So is imagination."
His father acknowledged that with a small nod.
"But imagination," his father said, "needs structure. Otherwise it collapses under its own weight."
They stopped again, this time at the edge of the field where the grass met a low stone boundary.
Henry took a breath. "I don't want to collapse," he said evenly. "I just don't want to live in someone else's blueprint."
That gave his father pause.
"You think this is about rebellion," his father said slowly. "It isn't. It's about direction."
"It's about choice," Henry replied.
They stood there in silence for a moment, the wind moving through the flags between them.
"I'm not asking for permission," Henry said at last. "And I'm not asking you to approve. I just want you to understand that I'm building something too. It just doesn't look like this."
His father studied him carefully.
"Passion is volatile," his father said. "It doesn't compound the way discipline does."
"Neither does regret," Henry answered quietly.
That was the closest they came to confrontation.
Eventually, his father exhaled. "You always did have a way of reframing the discussion."
They turned back toward the house together, neither fully conceding, neither fully retreating.
Henry and his father walked steadily across the eastern grounds.
"Henry," his father began, breaking the quiet, "I've been thinking about everything you told me last year — about the cracks forming in the U.S. markets. From the peak in October 2007, through the corrections, the Bear Stearns collapse, and finally Lehman in September, you were right about all of it."
Henry kept his gaze forward, eyes scanning the stakes. Numbers, positions, exposure — all part of the system. The family was already wealthy, and my insight just multiplied what they had.
"I wasn't sure at first how seriously to take your observations," his father continued, "but I acted on them. I initially deployed ten billion dollars in short positions across key financials, using leverage of roughly three times. As profits came in, I reinvested, increasing our positions and expanding coverage. The hedges ensured the downside remained controlled. Timing was critical, and your perspective helped me calibrate everything perfectly."
his father continued. "Initially, about thirty billion dollars in exposure. As the strategy progressed and we reinvested profits, effective exposure peaked closer to eighty billion. The week of October 6 to 10, 2008, when the DJIA lost 18.2% and the S&P fell over 20%, we were positioned to maximize gains without risking the core of our fortune."
Henry considered the numbers casually.
"You know that this will ripple across the world; the fall of those banks would lead to more panic, and as the U.S. economy becomes more unstable, it will cause a shitstorm," he said grimly.
"I know, and we're prepared for that." His father, unfazed by the impending calamity,
"How much are you willing to expend in this expedition?"
"As you said before, this is another DotCom Bubble; we're putting a considerable effort, the hedge fund's full 80 billion, and then in our private equity arm, I just liquidated 60 billion to mitigate any effects before this thing spreads. I'll use that to pick up scraps."
"How much are the assets we manage now in all three: hedge, private, and holding?"
"A little over 400, we just accepted some new clients for the private arm."
The Amberstein Group was a sprawling financial empire with locations in all the major financial hubs, meticulously structured to maximize both flexibility and influence. At its core was a hedge fund subsidiary, managed with surgical precision to capitalize on market movements — a division increasingly shaped by Henry's prodigious insight (Future Knowledge) alongside his father's expertise. The private equity branch acquired and restructured undervalued companies. Overarching both was the holding company, a central hub coordinating the Group's vast network of investments, real estate, and strategic stakes across industries, ensuring the family's fortune remained not only immense, but diversified and resilient.
"Father… with everything combined, investments, estates, all assets, how much is the family worth now?" Henry asked, curiosity in his tone.
His father smiled faintly. "Conservatively? Around 200 billion dollars, we are near it."
Henry nodded. 'The family's fortune was already staggering. My contributions just accelerated growth exponentially. Still, this isn't mine. My ambitions don't conflate.'
"I understand why you acted as you did," Henry said quietly. "The family's legacy is immense. But I intend to live my life in my own way."
His father's lips tugged into a small smile. "Unfortunately, I cannot stop you for now, your grandfather has found ways to restrict me." his face indicated a hint of annoyance
That evening, the estate was alive again.
Dinner stretched long into the night, conversations overlapping as plates were cleared and refilled. Henry found himself seated between relatives he barely knew, answering questions about life abroad without going into detail. Laughter came easily. Stories resurfaced, retold with familiar exaggeration.
Later, he slipped away to the terrace, where lights from the estate glowed softly against the dark countryside.
From here, the eastern grounds were barely visible. Just a patch of shadow beyond the manicured gardens. Soon enough, something monumental would rise there.
But for now, it remained open.
Henry stood there for a while, hands resting on the stone railing, feeling neither trapped nor free—just present.
For the holidays, that was enough.