March in New York: sunlight sliced through Midtown skyscraper glass, carving sharp shadows on the cold streets below.
Victor stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of a high-rise office, looking down at toy-sized cars and people hustling like ants.
He'd just wrapped a meeting with Mr. Chen, the Asian-American head of SHW's New York ops.
Chen lived up to the hype: chatty, rock-solid. He broke down how 270+ SHW-branded food trucks were parked at every hot spot in the city, printing money like mobile ATMs—over $200K profit a month.
The number made Victor nod, but that's it—just a nod.
His brain was already mapping the bigger play: how to lock in this model, standardize it, and roll it out nationwide without screwing up costs or quality.
"Victor, New York proves the concept works," Chen had said. "Next step: standardize, scale fast, keep iron control on costs and execution."
Victor agreed. Boots-on-the-ground guy through and through. Slow, smart growth over flashy explosions.
Then his Motorola buzzed.
Blair Pafa—the ambitious, well-connected CEO who wanted to "Americanize" everything.
"Victor, where you at? Get to Sapphire Café on the Upper East Side. Now."
Blair's tone left no room for debate.
"Right now? Just finished with Chen. Can't this wait for a call?"
Victor frowned. He hated last-minute schedule hijacks.
"Introducing you to a girl."
Blair didn't miss a beat. "Listen, we talked about this ages ago. You need a white girlfriend. Not a suggestion—strategy.
It'll fast-track your acceptance in these circles. The business upside? Insane. Think about it: successful Asian entrepreneur with a classy white partner? That smashes invisible ceilings left and right."
Victor felt a wave of absurdity and pushback.
Since when was his love life a line item on a business plan?
"Blair, appreciate the 'help,' but I'm good. My empire runs on product and systems, not—"
"Victor!" Blair cut in, voice hard. "This is America. You don't play the game, you don't get in the room.
You're an outsider here. Want top-tier access? More resources? Some rules you follow—or exploit. I'm not asking.
Caroline Channing. My college buddy. Old money, polished, into you. Just meet her. Call it networking. I already set it up. Don't make me look bad."
Victor went quiet for a beat.
Hated the puppet-strings vibe. But Blair's jab hit a nerve—ugly truth about how New York really worked. Image and connections could open doors cash never could.
He exhaled, half-laughing at himself. "Text me the address."
---
Sapphire Café smelled like fresh-ground beans and quiet money.
At a window table sat a blonde—poised, elegant. Caroline Channing.
She spotted Victor, flashed a practiced, perfect smile.
"Victor Li? Caroline Channing. Blair talks you up nonstop. Says you're young, driven, built a food empire from scratch. Impressive."
She extended a manicured hand.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Channing. Blair oversells. Just a small operation."
Victor shook lightly, sat across from her.
Quick scan: classic Upper East Side princess. Tall, gorgeous, designer everything. But her eyes? Curious, detached—like the world was a museum and he was the new exhibit.
Conversation confirmed it.
Caroline was smooth: art openings, charity galas, name-dropping like breathing. She gushed over Victor's "food truck empire" like it was a cute startup hobby.
"Using trucks for food? So clever! It's like a mobile revolution, right?"
She batted her lashes. Victor could tell she had zero clue about supply chains, standardized recipes, or street-team hustle.
He stayed polite, gave short answers. Inside? Flatline. Exhausted.
He lived in kitchen grease, spreadsheets, expansion maps, and the dream of earning respect in the ring—not salon chatter and fashion week.
Different planets.
Talk dried up fast. Victor didn't know "elegant" from "fragrant." Caroline tried boxing—commented on "hot fighter bodies." Cringe.
Coffee barely touched, both knew it was over.
"Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Victor ."
"Likewise, Ms. Channing."
At the register, Victor reached for his wallet. Caroline smoothly: "Let's split it."
He didn't argue. Perfectly transactional. Exactly what this was.
Walking out, the autumn breeze hit his face. He felt lighter.
Forgot the whole thing. Back to breaking down Tyson Fury fight tape.
---
That night, a knock at his hotel door.
Outside: a suited, stone-faced middle-aged man.
"Good evening, Mr. Victor . Apologies for the intrusion. I'm secretary to Mr. Martin Channing."
He handed over a thick, embossed invitation.
"Mr. Channing cordially invites you to lunch tomorrow at 12:30 p.m. in the Oak Room. A car will be waiting downstairs."
Victor froze.
Martin Channing?
The Wall Street titan? Net worth north of $2 billion?
How the hell did he know Victor existed?
And why the formal invite?
"Is Mr. Channing inviting me for any particular reason?"
The secretary smiled like a robot. "He's simply very interested in you and your business. Hopes to discuss. Please honor us with your presence."
After the guy left, Victor stared at the heavy card, suspicion swirling.
First thought: Blair. Then—nah. Blair's connected, but not Channing connected.
Wait… Caroline Channing?
She'd mentioned her dad "worked on Wall Street"…
A wild guess clicked. No way.
Go? Or ghost?
Opportunity on top of opportunity—all opportunity.
Martin Channing was a finance god. Victor stayed miles away from Wall Street's casino games—especially with a crash he could smell coming.
What if they're on different wavelengths?
But this was a golden ticket. Curiosity and business instinct won.
---
Next morning, Victor prepped hard: polished SHW data, future rollout plans, macro takes backed by numbers.
Noon: a luxury sedan whisked him to the Oak Room, a private club in the heart of Manhattan.
Old money vibes: dark oak paneling, priceless art, silence so thick you could hear a stock tick.
Martin Channing waited in a corner booth.
Younger than photos, golden hair perfect, eyes like a hawk. Friendly smile—predator underneath.
"Mr. Victor , glad you came."
He stood, firm handshake. "My daughter Caroline mentioned your chat yesterday. Said you were sharp, grounded—nothing like the loudmouth kids she usually meets."
Called it.
Victor kept cool. "Kind words from Ms. Channing. Honored by your invitation, sir."
Small talk flowed over lunch—easy, controlled.
Martin steered like a pro: NYC food scene → macro economy → straight into Victor's model and growth plans.
He'd done his homework. Knew SHW inside out.
"Great operation, Victor—mind if I call you that?"
He sliced lamb like it was a board meeting. "You nailed demand, delivered it cheap and fast, built a scalable machine. That's real business. But…"
He leaned in, fork down. "Ever think bigger? Faster? Rolling profits is slow. Wall Street can rocket-fuel you. One funding round—or straight to IPO—I could have your brand in every major U.S. city in a year."
Classic financier: leverage, speed, scale.
Tempting. Dangerous.
Victor paused, then went honest.
"Mr. Channing, I respect the offer—and Wall Street's power."
Careful but firm. "But forgive my bluntness: I'm bearish on U.S. financial markets right now."
Martin's brow twitched—just a flicker. Not used to pushback, especially in his sandbox.
"Bearish? Data looks strong."
"Data lies. Purchasing power doesn't. Under the hood: liquidity flood, bloated assets, subprime risk getting shuffled and stacked like Jenga."