Time flew by, and before Adrián Foster realized it, a week had passed since he took the reins of his new company. Little by little, he settled into the office routine: nine-to-five schedules, endless meetings, documents requiring his signature. Although, to be honest, his work life was far from conventional.
Adrián was the CEO, the owner, the man who had bought the company on a whim rather than out of necessity. Sometimes he arrived late without much concern, other times he left before the official time. No one dared say anything to him: at the end of the day, that entire building belonged to him.
"This is why I came," he thought as he stretched his legs on his mahogany desk, his console lit up in front of the giant screen. "Not to drown myself in paperwork."
It was true: he had equipped the executive floor with several video game consoles and a complete collection of titles. When meetings became unbearable or reports became too monotonous, he would escape to his small private room to lose himself in shooters or Formula 1 races.
Still, something was bothering him.
It wasn't the workload, or the weight of running a multi-million dollar company. What really worried him was that his relationship withHelen Montgomery, the young influencer I had hired as a digital marketing director, was barely making any progress.
Beyond corporate meetings and formal greetings, they barely shared time. Helen was constantly traveling, filming content for her social media, collaborating with brands, or attending events in Manhattan and Los Angeles. Every time Adrián tried to get close, she was already on a flight or closing another deal.
"I came here to win her over, not to be ditched with scheduling excuses," he mumbled as he looked at his office clock. "The pain of watching the days go by without making any progress is indescribable."
Adrián knew he was being impatient. It had only been ten days since he'd met her in person. But that was her character: determined, direct, accustomed to getting what she wanted.
"If I wait too long, someone else might show up," he said to himself, toying with a glass of imported whiskey. "Helen is beautiful, talented, and free. She has no shortage of suitors."
Besides, at twenty-five, her family was probably already pressuring her with blind dates, engagements, and the idea of starting a family. Could he risk waiting indefinitely? No.
Adrián had never been in a serious relationship. This was the first time he'd truly pursued a woman. He thought a lot, but did little, and that frustrated him.
"Other people in my position would have done something more shameless; they would have invited her, insisted, and sought her out again and again," he reflected with a hint of irony. "But I still play video games in the office like a millionaire teenager."
At five o'clock sharp, he put away the console, turned off the monitor, and stood up. He walked to the reception desk, where the young receptionist was looking at him with a mixture of respect and curiosity.
"Time to go, Linda. Have a nice weekend," he said with a slight smile, as he punched the exact time into his watch.
She politely dismissed him, but as soon as she walked out the door, murmurs began among the remaining employees.
"He's always waiting for five o'clock," one commented.
—Yes, but don't compare him to us. Mr. Foster is a millionaire playing boss. We do depend on this to survive.
—So why would you buy a company if you don't plan on working?
—Who knows. Rich people are bored, I guess. This is just a hobby for him.
Amid laughter and whispers, Adrian had already taken the private elevator to the underground parking lot.
In the garage, surrounded by Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, and Bentleys, his Rolls-Royce Phantom dominated the space like a king on his throne. Deep black, with immaculate chrome details, it looked more like a work of art than a car.
Seeing him, Adrian smiled ironically.
"At the time, I bought it just because it was the most expensive. And it's not even comfortable to drive." He ran his hand over the gleaming bodywork and added, "I should have kept the Aston."
He climbed into the vehicle and started the engine with an elegant roar. The streets of New York greeted him, bathed in a sunset that painted the sky orange and gold. Between the traffic on Fifth Avenue and the light filtering through the skyscrapers, his car was a sight to behold. Other drivers kept their distance: no one wanted to risk hitting a multimillion-dollar car.
While driving, he rejected an incoming call from a stunning blonde he'd met at an exclusive party in Central Park. He didn't even bother to answer.
—Sorry, darling, I already have someone in mind.
Then another call rang, this time from a saved number. He answered with a half smile.
"Brother Adrian, where are you?" a male voice asked, a little shrill, almost amused.
"I'm on my way." Adrian looked at the route on the GPS. "Ten minutes and I'll be there."
—Perfect, let me know when you're outside. I'll meet you at the entrance.
He hung up and accelerated slightly. Turning onto Riverside Drive, he arrived in front of a neoclassical mansion, an architectural gem in the heart of Manhattan. A stone facade, tall windows, a carefully landscaped garden, and a wrought-iron gate spoke of centuries of wealth and power.
The door opened and a man about his age appeared, with a mischievous smile, eyebrows arched like a crescent moon, fair skin and a slim build. He wasDerek Hamilton, his university classmate and, perhaps, the only true friend that Adrián had made in those years.
"You're finally here, asshole!" Derek exclaimed with a laugh as he hugged him.
"Don't insult me on your own doorstep, you idiot," Adrian replied, laughing back. "You're making me look bad to your neighbors."
They both entered the mansion, walking on polished black marble and beneath crystal chandeliers that reflected the light like artificial stars. Luxury was evident in every corner: paintings, sculptures, imported armchairs—everything exuded wealth.
A middle-aged man with a strong build, short hair, and a penetrating gaze awaited them in the main hall. He was dressed in simple sportswear, but his bearing commanded respect.
"Good evening, Mr. Hamilton," Adrian greeted respectfully. "You're getting younger every day."
Richard HamiltonDerek's father, a real estate developer and one of the most influential men in Manhattan, put down the book he was holding and smiled broadly.
"Adrian Foster... it's been a while. Every time you come here, you bring a gift, right?" he said, shaking her hand firmly. "Just your presence is enough for me."
Adrian discreetly offered him a wooden box.
"I heard you were looking for a 1787 Château d'Yquem. I had a bottle in storage. I thought it would be more appreciated here than in my cellar."
Richard's eyes sparkled with surprise and satisfaction.
—This is too much, son. That wine is worth a fortune.
"To me it would be accumulated dust. To you it will be a pleasure," Adrian replied with a confident smile.
Richard accepted the gift, understanding that the young man not only had money, but also vision and respect. He silently reflected that Adrian was different from most of the spoiled heirs he had met: he had ambition and charisma.
And Derek, at his side, looked at him knowingly. Because although the label "bad friends" suited them, the truth was that they both knew that together they could cause more than one earthquake in New York.