Jason's gaze drifted lazily toward the still-trembling Williams, his expression carrying the kind of amused detachment usually reserved for watching street performers.
"Interesting," he mused aloud, his voice carrying just enough edge to make everyone lean in. "Didn't you spend the last twenty minutes trying to throw us out?"
Williams' face cycled through several shades of panic before settling on a sickly yellow that matched the lounge's neon lighting.
"Mr. Carter, surely you jest," he stammered, his hands wringing like he was trying to strangle invisible snakes. "I would never dream of asking someone of your... caliber to leave. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding with your companions earlier, but that was entirely my failing."
He pivoted toward Megan, Christopher, and the others with the desperate energy of a man trying to defuse a bomb with his teeth. His bow was so deep it bordered on parody.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I offer my most sincere apologies for any offense caused. I clearly overstepped my bounds."
The group exchanged glances. Their earlier anger had transformed into something far more satisfying—the sweet taste of watching their tormentor grovel.
Brooke's smile held all the warmth of a midwinter funeral. "Don't apologize to us," she said. "If you're genuinely sorry, apologize to Megan. And here's some free advice—learn to read the room before you start throwing your weight around. Karma has excellent aim."
"Yes, absolutely, you're completely right," Williams babbled, mentally composing while maintaining his plastic smile. If it weren't for this kid's backing, I'd rather eat glass than bow to a bunch of college brats.
He turned toward Megan with the reverence of a pilgrim approaching a shrine. "Miss, I deeply regret not recognizing the distinguished company I was addressing. Please accept my apologies. And of course, the courtesy discount we discussed remains in full effect."
Megan regarded him with the kind of cool dismissal usually reserved for particularly persistent insects. Her acknowledgment was barely a nod, her attention already drifting back to Jason like a compass needle finding true north.
Sensing that his audience's patience had expired, Williams scurried back to Jason with renewed desperation, offered another round of apologies, and retreated to lick his wounds in whatever dark corner of the establishment would have him.
Brooke, who had been quietly cataloging every detail of the evening's entertainment, finally voiced what everyone was thinking. "Jason," she said, her curiosity bubbling over like champagne, "just how wealthy are you, exactly? Dropping over a million on wine like it's a casual Tuesday night purchase—that's not normal human behavior."
Her question hung in the air like a challenge, echoing the thoughts ricocheting through every mind in the room.
Jason's laughter was warm and genuine, carrying none of the artifice that usually accompanied discussions of money. "Maybe I'm not as rich as you're imagining," he said with self-deprecating humor. "That was essentially my entire liquid savings account."
It wasn't technically a lie—he had indeed spent every dollar of his available cash. The fact that another thirty million had materialized in his account minutes later was a detail that would remain his secret until the heat death of the universe.
Michael rolled his eyes with theatrical exaggeration. "Right, and I'm secretly the crown prince of Monaco. That had to be pocket change for someone like you."
Nobody bought Jason's modest deflection for even a microsecond. The casual confidence with which he'd orchestrated the evening's events—these weren't the behaviors of someone spending their last dollar. This was the calm that came from knowing that money was merely a tool, not a constraint.
Megan approached with the fluid grace of a dancer, her smile carrying warmth that could have melted polar ice caps. "Thank you, Jason," she said, her voice soft enough to be intimate while remaining audible to the entire room. "Without your intervention, tonight would have been nothing but humiliation."
"You're welcome," Jason replied with characteristic understatement. "Though I hardly did anything revolutionary."
Megan turned to include Christopher, Miller, and Cole in her gratitude. "And thank you all for standing up for me. I won't forget it."
The three young men shuffled awkwardly. Their efforts had been genuine, but everyone present understood the evening's true hierarchy.
Jason raised his glass with the casual authority of a Roman emperor addressing the Senate. "Don't just stare at the bottles like they're museum pieces," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of gentle command. "They're meant to be enjoyed. Pick whichever ones interest you."
The collection before them represented more liquid wealth than most people would accumulate in their lifetimes. The 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild had survived World War II to become legend. The 1985 Romanée-Conti was spoken of in the same reverent tones usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"This is..." Christopher began, then stopped, his usually articulate mind struggling to process the magnitude of the gesture. "We couldn't possibly. These bottles are worth more than my car."
Nobody moved. The collection sat before them like a test they were afraid to fail.
Jason sighed with the patient indulgence of a teacher dealing with particularly stubborn students. He gestured toward their server, a young woman whose hands had been trembling since the first delivery arrived.
"Please open the '45 Mouton and the Romanée-Conti," he instructed, his tone carrying the casual authority that had become his signature. "The reds will complement the evening better."
The server's face went through several color changes before settling on a shade that suggested impending cardiac arrest. When she realized she was being asked to open bottles worth more than her annual salary, her hands began shaking like leaves in a hurricane.
Jason noticed her distress immediately and offered her a smile.
"Relax," he said, his voice carrying the warmth of a favorite uncle. "If something spills, something spills. You won't owe me a penny, I promise."
The woman blinked at him in stunned gratitude. Those simple words—delivered with such genuine kindness—transformed her terror into steady professionalism.
The exchange didn't go unnoticed by the women at the table, who shared meaningful glances that spoke volumes about their evolving perception of their host.
Most wealthy men they'd encountered wielded their status like weapons, taking perverse pleasure in making service staff squirm. Jason's approach was the opposite—he used his power to put others at ease, even while casually opening bottles that cost more than most people's homes.
That wasn't nouveau riche behavior. That was genuine class, the kind that couldn't be purchased or inherited.
Christopher and Michael could only watch in quiet amazement as their worldview continued its rapid expansion. If either of them had owned such bottles, they'd have treated them like radioactive material, complete with armed guards and insurance policies. Jason shrugged off their opening like someone cracking open a beer after work.
Megan's expression softened until it resembled spun gold in candlelight. Jason seemed to glow with an inner light that made everyone else fade by comparison.
[System Alert: Megan's Affection +15]
The server poured with the reverence, allowing just enough wine to coat the bottom of each glass. The liquid caught the room's neon lighting like liquid rubies.
Everyone handled their glasses as if they contained the essence of divinity itself. Even those who typically avoided alcohol found themselves unable to resist the temptation of tasting history.
The first sip was revelatory. The wine didn't just taste expensive—it tasted like concentrated time, like decades of perfect weather and careful cultivation distilled into liquid form. Megan and Brooke both released sighs that bordered on the divine.
Sarah, despite their limited wine knowledge, understood instinctively that they were drinking something extraordinary. Every drop was savored like a prayer.
Jason swirled his glass with the practiced motion of someone who'd attended more wine tastings than rock concerts. The vintage was exceptional—truly magnificent, even. But to his pragmatic mind, no beverage could justify a six-figure price tag. The real value wasn't in the drinking; it was in the demonstration that he could afford to drink it.
Before they'd finished appreciating their glasses, the door opened once more.
Williams entered, but this time he wasn't alone. Beside him stood a distinguished man in his fifties, his silver hair perfectly styled, his suit tailored with the kind of precision that whispered of Savile Row origins.
"Mr. carter," Williams said, his voice carrying the desperate energy of a man trying to salvage his career, "I'd like you to meet Frank Donovan—the owner of our establishment."
Frank stepped forward with the confident grace of someone accustomed to commanding respect without demanding it. His handshake was firm but not crushing, his smile genuine but measured.
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Jason," he said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of expensive education and international experience. "Thank you for choosing our venue for your evening. I hope Williams has been... accommodating."
Jason rose to meet him with fluid grace, matching the older man's professionalism with his own quiet authority. "Mr. Donovan, the honor is mine. Thank you for taking time from what I imagine is a very busy schedule."
Frank's eyes performed a subtle inventory of the opened bottles, and his smile deepened with something approaching reverence. Anyone willing to casually uncork world's rarest wines was worth cultivating as both customer and contact.
"Not at all," Frank replied smoothly. "Would you mind joining me in one of our private dining rooms next door? I'd love to chat for a few minutes, if you have the time."
Williams, his survival instincts finally kicking into overdrive, practically teleported to the door to lead the way. His mind was already composing explanations for how he'd nearly destroyed the establishment's relationship with what was clearly a whale of the highest order.
The remaining students sat in stunned silence. Even the owner of the city's most exclusive dining establishment was treating Jason with the kind of respect usually reserved for heads of state.
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