Andrei Stevens POV
Late 1974
The reports from Penguin were a steady, satisfying drumbeat, not a fireworks display. Lionel the Cat and the Case of the Missing Whiskers had not taken the world by storm. Instead, it had found its shelf in bookshops and, according to the quarterly statements, was steadily finding its way into homes. Sales graphs showed a gentle, upward slope—the line of a story building an audience, not triggering a frenzy. There were no legal letters from giant rodent-themed corporations, no sensational headlines about a child prodigy. It was quiet, professional success. The kind that built a durable foundation.
My sixth birthday party had been a sprawling, cheerful affair at our Chester Square house, filled with cousins whose faces I was still learning to match with names. The scale of it—the lavish cake, the number of gifts, the effortless way my parents hosted—finally crystallized a question that had nibbled at the edge of my mind. How were we able to call a managing director at Penguin for a consultation?
One afternoon, after Dad returned from Bristol, I found my moment. "Father," I began, choosing my words with the care I used for contract clauses. "The publishing deal… it's going well. It made me wonder. What does 'well' mean for us? What is our… position?"
Dad exchanged a look with Mother. It was a silent conversation of raised brows and slight nods, ending in agreement.
"Family meeting," Mum announced. "In the study."
Minutes later, the five of us were assembled. Dad didn't stand behind the desk like a chairman; he sat with us, creating a circle. He spoke plainly, without pretension.
"You know I run the company my grandfather started. Mines, shipping. It's solid. It provides. But your mother and I, and our parents before us, have always believed in land and bricks." He laid it out like a simple map. "We are not aristocrats with titles. We are not flashy nouveaux riches. We are… comfortably established. Multi-Millionaires, yes. But our wealth isn't primarily in a bank vault."
Mum took over, her economist's clarity making it a lesson. "It's in assets. The business is one. The others are the houses. We own seven properties in London. This one, others in Knightsbridge, Belgravia. They are homes, but they are also investments. They are what secure our position, generate rental income, and will be there for you three, always."
Seven houses. The number landed with a soft thud in my mind. It wasn't billionaire yacht money; it was old-world, resilient, grounded wealth. It explained the access, the instant credibility, the buffer that allowed my father to treat my children's book venture as a serious, if small, family enterprise.
"This isn't an excuse for extravagance," Dad said, his gaze sweeping over Damien's fascinated face, Daphne's confused one, and my own carefully neutral expression. "It's a responsibility. A foundation from which you can build something of your own merit. Andrei is already starting. Damien, Daphne—your turns will come."
The meeting broke up, Damien buzzing with questions about the houses, Daphne content that "we have lots of homes." I lingered by the window, the new context reshaping my plans. This was the launchpad. Not infinite cash, but immense stability. It allowed for calculated risk.
The thought triggered an echo from my last Library session. Among the dry financial data, a different kind of future-cultural artifact had flickered: the global rise of sports franchises as premium, community-anchoring assets. A frivolous idea, perhaps, for a child. But for a future media figure? A powerful symbol of influence, a nexus for broadcasting rights, brand synergy, and city-wide loyalty.
During my birthday hour, I had diverted a fraction of my search.
Query: Feasibility & strategy for individual acquisition of major sports franchises (English football, American franchises, etc ) 1970s-1990s. Key financial, regulatory, and cultural turning points.
The data was clear. The window was now, in the 70s and early 80s. Before television deals exploded, before global branding made teams priceless. It required capital, yes, but more so required foresight and the stomach for what were then seen as risky, working-class investments. For a fan, it was a passion. For a strategist with a media goal, it was a potential keystone in a larger empire.
It was a seed. I filed it away under Long-Term Ambitions: Post-18.
The practical present arrived in the form of a new letter from Penguin. With the first book performing steadily above projections for its niche, their tone was warmly bullish. They proposed a timetable: a commitment to a Lionel the Cat series, with two, perhaps three, books per year to build "reader habit and brand presence."
Attached was a draft cover sketch for the second book: Lionel the Cat and the Riddle of the Clock Tower. They were all in.
That night, I lay in bed, the System interface a soft glow.
[ SYSTEM: PATHWAY UPDATE ]
[ Foundational Capital & IP - Phase 1: EXCEEDING PARAMETERS. ]
[ Asset: 'Lionel the Cat' - Status: VIABLE SERIES. Secured. ]
[ New Capital Generation Projection: ON TRACK. ]
[ Suggestion: Proceed with series expansion. Reinvest initial royalties into designated investment capital fund. ]
I closed my eyes. The path was unfolding. The first intellectual property was secured and growing. The family foundation was understood, a rock-solid platform. And on the distant horizon, beyond the next book, the next investment, a new kind of goal shimmered—not just about making stories, but about owning a piece of a city's soul, a sports team, where every game was a story millions watched.
The first chapter of my second chance was being published, one steady sale at a time. The next chapters, I knew, would be written on a much larger canvas.
A/N
The series is a go. The capital will start to flow. And a new, grand ambition has been seeded. What will be Andrei's first move with his growing investment fund? And how will the steady, quiet success of a children's cat detective start to open unexpected doors in the world he truly wants to enter?)