The silence that followed Williams' transformation was deafening. It pressed against the room like a physical force, making everyone acutely aware of their own breathing.
Christopher stared in bewilderment, his mind struggling to process what he'd witnessed. He'd thrown his family name around like a weapon, confident in the Blackwell legacy that had opened doors for three generations. Miller had deployed his student council connections. Cole had relied on raw intimidation, the kind that had cleared football fields and boardrooms alike.
None of it had even fazed Williams.
Yet Jason had spoken fewer than ten words, and the man was practically genuflecting.
Miller adjusted his glasses nervously, his analytical mind working overtime. "What the hell is his deal?" he whispered to his friends. "Williams looked like he was about to offer him his firstborn."
Cole's street-smart eyes had been conducting their own investigation. His gaze locked onto Jason's wrist like a heat-seeking missile.
"Guys..." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "That watch. That's a Patek Philippe Nautilus."
The name hit Miller and Christopher like a physical blow.
"If it's authentic," Cole continued, his voice tight with disbelief, "we're looking at two hundred thousand dollars. Minimum."
Miller's breath caught in his throat. Christopher's eyes widened until they resembled dinner plates.
Two hundred thousand dollars. On his wrist. At a college birthday party.
Christopher's family lived well—his father's Porsche Cayenne and their house in Beacon Hill were testament to their success. But even his parents, with their comfortable seven-figure net worth, would never casually strap a quarter-million-dollar timepiece to their son's wrist for a night out.
That level of wealth was reserved for families whose assets were measured in tens of millions, not mere millions.
The revelation rippled through the group like wildfire. The girls huddled together, their whispered conversations punctuated by furtive glances at Jason.
"Who exactly is this Jason?" Sarah asked, her voice tinged with newfound curiosity. "Williams treats him like royalty."
Brook, who'd been quietly observing the entire spectacle, bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "I only met him a few days ago. The rumors said he'd been chasing after some girl for three years without success—painted him as this pathetic simp. But when I actually talked to him..." She paused, searching for the right words. "He wasn't like that at all. Calm, refined, different. And now, looking at him control this situation..."
Her voice trailed off, but the admiration in her tone was unmistakable.
That kind of quiet dominance was more devastating than any amount of shouting or chest-beating could ever be.
Megan's luminous eyes drank in every detail, her mind rapidly recalibrating her assessment of the young man before her. Unlike the others, she recognized the Patek Philippe immediately—her father's business had exposed her to enough luxury goods to understand the hierarchy of wealth.
A Patek wasn't just expensive; it was a statement. It whispered of old money, established power, the kind of influence that didn't need to announce itself.
Her eyes gleamed with newfound appreciation.
[System Alert: Megan's Affection +20]
Jason's eyebrows rose slightly at the notification's chime. Twenty points in one move—apparently his patience had been more strategic than he'd realized.
Settling deeper into the plush leather, Jason spoke with the casual authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed:
"I've ordered several cases of vintage spirits. The delivery should arrive momentarily." His voice carried the kind of quiet menace. "You were so eager to throw us out—who exactly will be covering my losses when those bottles arrive to an empty room?"
Williams' face cycled through several shades of pale as the implications sank in. Someone who wore a two-hundred-thousand-dollar watch like a casual accessory could easily have ordered wines worth tens of thousands—possibly hundreds of thousands. That kind of money would bankrupt him personally, even if the establishment could theoretically cover it.
But backing down completely would destroy what remained of his authority in front of everyone present.
After what felt like an eternity, Williams forced his features into something resembling a conciliatory smile. "Of course, Mr. Jason. I wouldn't dream of rushing you out. Perhaps the others could..." He gestured vaguely at the rest of the group. "I'll personally ensure your table receives our finest service."
Jason's lips curved in a smile that never quite reached his eyes—the kind of expression that had historically preceded the fall of empires.
"I think you misunderstood my question," he said with silky politeness. "I don't need you to play host. My order is already in route—" His pause carried the weight of inevitability. Your services won't be necessary."
Williams' artificial smile froze like a death mask. The carefully controlled atmosphere suddenly felt thin enough to suffocate on.
The standoff stretched taut as a bowstring—until the door swung open with practiced precision.
A young man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit stepped through, his movements crisp and professional. His eyes swept the room with the efficiency of someone accustomed to navigating high-stakes environments.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of expensive education, "which of you gentlemen is Mr. Jason Carter? Your order has arrived."
"That would be me," Jason replied, raising one hand with the casual grace of someone signing autographs.
Though he'd placed the order through an app, he'd deliberately chosen one of the city's most exclusive distributors—the kind that catered to celebrities and hedge fund princes. The premium for immediate delivery had been astronomical, but money was no value when image was everything for Jason.
The delivery specialist approached with reverent care, carrying a polished mahogany case that gleamed under the lounge's neon lighting. He opened it with the ceremony usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"Mr. Hayworth," he announced with the gravity of a museum curator, "your 1980 Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve. Please confirm the delivery."
The room's collective intake of breath was audible.
Williams' jaw unhinged like a broken puppet. Miller, Cole, and Christopher exchanged glances that could have communicated novels.
Christopher's analytical mind kicked into overdrive, drawing on half-remembered conversations from his father's business dinners. "I know bourbon can get ridiculously expensive, especially the rare stuff... but 1980 Pappy? How much are we talking?"
Cole, whose street education had included more than a few encounters with luxury goods, answered in a voice drained of color: "Try two hundred and sixty thousand. Minimum and single one cost more than 20 grand."
"Two hundred and sixty thousand," Christopher repeated slowly, as if the numbers might make more sense at a different speed. "For bourbon."
His family wasn't poor—his college fund alone was worth more than most people's houses. But spending a quarter-million dollars on alcohol felt like setting money on fire for the pure entertainment value.
The girls in their corner booth had gone silent, their eyes tracking Jason's every movement with the intensity of astronomers discovering new stars.
Before the shock could fully settle, another figure appeared in the doorway—a woman this time, her business attire so perfectly tailored it might have been painted onto her frame. She carried a velvet-lined case with the reverence of someone transporting crown jewels.
"Mr. Jason Hayworth?" Her voice held the professional warmth of someone who regularly dealt with eight-figure bank accounts.
"Present," Jason acknowledged with the same casual ease he might use to confirm a pizza order.
She glided forward with practiced grace, placing her burden on the table with ceremonial precision. "Sir, your 1985 Romanée-Conti. Please verify the authenticity seal."
Another wave of gasps rippled through the assembled students.
Miller's wine knowledge, gleaned from his family's occasional dinner parties, suddenly felt woefully inadequate. "I've heard that name whispered in reverent tones," he managed. "But what are we looking at price-wise?"
Christopher, who was rapidly becoming the group's reluctant expert on Jason's spending habits, consulted his phone with the dedication. "One hundred and eighty thousand. Give or take."
"Jesus Christ," Miller whispered, shaking his head like a man trying to wake from a particularly vivid dream.
But the parade of liquid luxury was far from over.
Next came a sommelier bearing a 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild—two hundred thousand dollars of wine that had survived World War II. Then arrived a specialist courier with a Rémy Martin Louis XIII Black Pearl cognac—a quarter-million-dollar bottle that came with its own armed security detail.
By the time the final delivery had been carefully arranged, the space in front of Jason resembled a museum exhibit dedicated to the intersection of wealth and alcohol. Each case represented more money than most families would see in a decade, casually assembled like pieces on a chessboard.
Christopher stared at the collection with the expression of a man witnessing divine intervention. "If someone knocked over that table," he said in hushed tones, "they'd basically be demolishing a small mansion."
He discreetly opened his phone's calculator, his fingers moving with the desperate precision of someone trying to solve an impossible equation. After several moments of frantic computation, he looked up with the pallor of a ghost.
"All together," he announced to no one in particular, "we're looking at just over one million dollars. In beverages."
The number hung in the air like an indictment of everything they thought they knew about wealth.
Manager Williams had gone beyond pale into territory that suggested active medical intervention might be necessary. Hosting a birthday party with a seven-figure bar tab wasn't just out of his league—it existed in a different universe entirely. His earlier assumptions about "maybe some expensive wine" made him feel like a child who'd tried to pay for a Ferrari with pocket change.
Without hesitation, without pride, Williams hurried forward with the desperate energy of a man seeking redemption. His face had reconstructed itself into an expression of abject apology.
"Mr. Carter," he began, his voice carrying the weight of genuine remorse, "I was completely out of line earlier. Blind, rude, inexcusably unprofessional. Please don't judge our establishment by my behavior. From this moment forward, whatever you or your distinguished guests require, you need only ask. I will personally ensure that your experience exceeds your highest expectations."
The collective exhale from the student section was audible. Miller, Cole, and Christopher released breaths they hadn't realized they'd been holding.
This wasn't just about money anymore—it was about the kind of power that money could buy, with out any effort.
Megan's gaze lingered on Jason like sunlight on still water, her expression transformed into something approaching reverence. The admiration in her eyes was no longer something she bothered to hide.
[System Alert: Megan's Affection +10]
Jason allowed himself a small, smile.
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