Victor laid it all out, every point backed by the hours Blair had spent obsessing over economic reports and market signals. "Look, I'm pretty sure a massive correction is unavoidable at this point. The only real questions are when the financial crisis hits and how bad it's gonna be."
He locked eyes with Martin, no flinch, no bullshit. "If we dump a ton of capital in right now and go full-throttle on expansion, the second credit tightens and consumer spending tanks, that high leverage turns into a death sentence overnight.
What we ought to be doing is digging in: tightening the model, stacking cash, battening down the hatches. Real businesses move slower, sure, but they've got roots. They survive the storm. This isn't the weather for pedal-to-the-metal growth; it's the calm before the storm."
He finished, and the booth went dead quiet for a beat.
Martin Channing didn't answer right away. He just studied the kid in front of him with those shark eyes, recalculating. He'd come here planning to rope in an investor to keep the dream alive, and Victor had just shot that plan down in flames.
Martin had seen plenty of founders practically drooling at the sight of money, ready to sign anything to grab the bag. But a guy this young who could stay ice-cold, spot macro risk a mile away, and actually say no to easy money because of it? That was rare as hell.
Then Martin let out a low, rumbling laugh that broke the tension.
"That's rich… that's really rich!"
He clapped once, real appreciation flashing in his eyes. Plan A was dead; time for Plan B.
"Any idiot can spot an opportunity, but it takes guts, especially when you're young and the whole world's high on hopium, to see the risk and walk away from the quick score. Victor, your head and your backbone just blew past anything I expected."
He raised his glass. "To good judgment. Honestly? I agree with some of your worries. The street's a powder keg right now."
Everyone on Wall Street already knew the system was shaky; by the time Main Street figured it out, it'd be way too late.
Victor let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and clinked glasses.
He'd just passed a test he didn't even know he was taking.
Lunch wound down, and the vibe loosened up. Martin dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned back, and got a little more personal.
"Victor, off the business for a second, I've got something private I wanna run by you."
He paused, reading Victor's face. "It's about my daughter, Caroline. After she got home last night, she made it crystal clear she's really into you. Says you're mature, grounded, got your own ideas; nothing like the trust-fund party boys she usually runs into."
Victor's pulse kicked. Here it comes.
He stayed quiet, let the man talk.
"And me?" Martin leaned in, voice lower but heavy. "After today, I'm impressed too. The way you think, the way you hold the line; that's rare these days.
So, speaking as a dad: if Caroline's on board and you two wanna take things further, you've got my blessing. Full support."
Victor's brain went into overdrive.
Now he got what this lunch was really about.
Sure, Martin liked his business brain, but the guy was also auditioning a potential son-in-law. This wasn't just the "strategic marriage" Blair had joked about; this was a father looking out for his little girl (and maybe the family dynasty) while genuinely liking the guy sitting across from him.
But something still felt off. Why was a titan like Martin shopping his daughter down the food chain instead of marrying up to even bigger money?
Say no?
You'd piss off a Wall Street heavyweight, his daughter, and torch a connection that could be worth hundreds of millions down the road.
Say yes?
He wasn't even attracted to Caroline, and the idea of tying feelings to a damn transaction made his skin crawl.
He was smack in the middle of a New York power chessboard, and Martin had just dropped a rook. Victor's next move had to be perfect.
He took a slow breath, met those bottomless eyes, and bought himself some room.
Martin wasn't the type to push too hard; he had his pride. "Today was a great lunch. I hope this isn't the last time we talk shop, or anything else."
…
Early spring in New York still had a bite in the air, but the sun was finally giving more than it took, splashing bright patches across the hotel carpet through the window.
Victor stood there staring at the traffic way down below, fingers tracing the window frame without really feeling it.
Martin's half-veiled hints from lunch kept floating through his head like feathers; annoying, but not sticking.
He shook it off. Too many people in this city loved turning simple shit complicated. He'd rather spend brain cells on stuff that actually made money.
A knock at the door snapped him out of it.
Caroline Channing was standing there in a sharp spring outfit, smile bright as the sunlight cutting through the last of winter.
How the hell did this girl get his room number?
And if she had it, why didn't she swing by last night?
"Looks like somebody could use a local tour guide," she teased, giving him a playful wink.
Hot girl making the first move? Victor wasn't gonna argue with that. He grinned.
Any weirdness from lunch suddenly felt irrelevant. The woman in front of him was Wharton-educated, sharp as hell, and might actually be useful.
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. Would I be lucky enough to steal a few hours of your time?"
What came next felt like someone hit fast-forward.
Caroline had energy and taste for days. They bounced all over Manhattan: galleries, boutiques, the whole capitalist candy store. Victor saw the glossy side of money he'd never bothered with before. He didn't get half the artsy descriptions; he was a fighter, not a philosopher, and none of this stuff helped him throw a punch or make payroll. But he had money. She had money. That part was easy.
In one old-school leather shop that smelled like money and history, Caroline stopped and picked up a gorgeous belt.
"Try this. It'll look killer with the suit you wore yesterday."
She said it like it was already decided.
Victor rolled with it.
When he reached for his wallet, she'd already slid her black card across the counter like it was no big deal. "Little gift. Celebrating your first big New York deal that's basically in the bag."
She laughed it off like she'd just bought him a coffee.
Victor froze for half a second.
He didn't like spending other people's money, and he sure as hell didn't like people spending money on him, especially a woman he barely knew.
A tiny flare of pride flared up, but he swallowed it and turned it into manners.
"Then let me return the favor."
His eyes landed on a designer women's hat that screamed her name. "This one was clearly waiting for you."
Thirty-two hundred bucks.
Neither of them blinked. That's just how this crowd rolled: quiet flexing, mutual respect, no need to say it out loud.
He caught the look in her eyes when she accepted the hat: appreciation, not surprise. Like this was normal.
Later, while they walked, he mentioned his next stop: checking out the Brooklyn Eagle as a potential investment.
"The Brooklyn Eagle?" Her eyebrow arched. "I know the editor's wife, Alice Moretti. Total powerhouse, super ambitious journalist. I could make an intro… and you probably need someone legit who actually understands balance sheets."
It wasn't an empty socialite offer; it was real value.
"That would be huge."
Meeting Alice Moretti and her editor husband went smoother than Victor had any right to expect, mostly because Caroline was there, and because Victor and Alice both understood that once the deal's done, nobody owes anybody favors.
She didn't just introduce them. She steered the whole conversation like a pro: buttering up the editor when it helped, then hitting him with razor-sharp questions that got straight to circulation numbers, ad revenue, printing costs, union headaches.
She even "casually" name-dropped two other buyers circling the paper.
Victor sat back and watched, impressed as hell.
Jimmy, who'd come along, looked like he'd been planning to low-ball and got shown up instead.
The sweet, shopping-obsessed heiress was an absolute shark at the table.
When the editor finally threw out his asking price, Caroline let out a light laugh and tapped a number on the financials with one perfect nail.
"Mr. Moretti, with this cash flow and the headwinds coming for print? That valuation's a dream, not a deal. Considering not only the cash Victor's bringing but also the reach and credibility he has as a champion fighter, a more realistic equity split would be… twenty percent."
She paused, then named a dollar figure even lower than Victor had in his head.
The room went tight.
The editor's face darkened.
Victor jumped in right on cue, calm and firm, backing her up, talking long-term partnership instead of quick flips.
Inside, he was stunned at how naturally they tag-teamed the guy.
End result: Victor put in a million bucks for 17% controlling stake.
Both sides walked away happy, with room to grow.
Walking out of the building into the cool Brooklyn evening, Victor felt damn good.
He glanced at Caroline; the streetlights lit her up like a movie poster.
"Caroline, I don't even know how to thank you. You crushed it in there."
She spun toward him, still smiling, but now with a businesslike edge. "Then thank me the way we both expect. My consulting fee's three grand. You cool with that, Victor?"
He blinked, then cracked up.
He wrote the check on the spot and handed it over.
Something about her being so upfront, no games, no "owing" anybody anything, felt… refreshing as hell.
Everything was clean. No gray areas, no emotional IOUs.
Just business.