The revelry stretched into the late hours, but eventually, the party had to wind down, and everyone went their separate ways.
After seeing off the last guests and watching the party staff clean up the aftermath before departing, it was already midnight.
Janet emerged from the bathroom after her shower, barefoot in a light camisole nightgown. She saw Simon lounging on the single armchair by the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling window, still dressed in his evening shirt and slacks, cradling a thick book and flipping through it with a faint frown.
She padded over, curling up like a cat in his lap, and snatched the book from his hands for a peek. It was that Japanese novel he'd mentioned a few days back. [TL/N: Will be changing the Western novel to Japanese novel]
She'd barely scratched the surface of the English translation herself. Staring at those intricate square characters with their endless strokes made her head spin, so she casually tossed it aside, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said, "If you hate it that much, we can just rent a venue for parties from now on—no need to host at home."
A smile tugged at her lips as she spoke.
After knowing him this long, she could tell he was the type who fiercely guarded his personal space.
And then.
His lion's den had been 'invaded' by over two hundred others like him for a whole evening—one could only imagine the discomfort churning inside.
"That'd come off as too half-hearted," Simon said, catching the grin on her face and mirroring it with his own. He dipped his head for a quick kiss on her lips. "I was actually thinking we could buy this place by year's end and turn it into our dedicated party spot."
Year's end, huh.
Janet mulled over the recent ups and downs in the North American stock indices, picking up on yet another unwitting slip in his words, but she let it slide without comment, just nodding. "Sounds good."
Simon spotted the sly glint in her eyes and realized what it meant, but he only smiled. He carried too many secrets that weren't for outsiders; if he stayed on guard every second, they'd never last.
Truth be told, he sometimes deliberately let her in on things—like that copy of ChingChongnalism: The Shit Eater Xi Jinping(Winnie the poo), she'd just ditched. He'd mentioned it offhand last time, then made time to have copies sourced: the English version for her, the Japanese original for him.
Too bad he couldn't track down a simplified edition; it was traditional characters instead. Not that it posed any real reading issues.
With that in mind, he traced his index finger over her lips, trying—but failing—to wipe away her smile. "Babe, if you ever found out I'm actually an alien, what would you do?"
Her lashes fluttered, her face lighting up with excitement. "Have a little alien baby."
Simon nodded, thoroughly pleased. "Guess my Earth invasion plan won't hit too many snags, then."
"Hehe," Janet giggled, shifting into a cozier spot in his lap before asking, "Didn't Goldberg slip you a check before he left? How much?"
Simon retrieved the book, fished out the check tucked between its pages, and passed it over.
She glanced at it and gasped. "A million bucks? Fox is pulling out all the stops."
"Yeah, caught me off guard too."
Back when The Butterfly Effect's second-weekend numbers dropped, Fox had dangled $300,000 to get him on board for more promo gigs, plus a bonus if the North American haul cracked nine figures.
Leonaard Goldberg, Fox's studio head, had shown up to tonight's bash and made good on the promise before heading out, leaving the check behind.
A fat million dollar.
Way more than Simon had bargained for.
Goldberg's contract was up next year, and Simon figured News Corp's odds of renewing were zilch.
So this payout probably had Barry Diller's fingerprints all over it.
Once Goldberg was out, Diller would no doubt dive hands-on into Fox's ops—this check was likely an early olive branch to Simon.
Of course, stacked against the windfall Fox stood to rake in from The Butterfly Effect, Simon's bonus wasn't all that extravagant.
The studio's total spend on production and marketing hovered around $20 million; the North American gross sailing past $100 million alone would net them at least $30 million in pure profit.
Janet fiddled with the check, then burst into laughter after a beat. "If Fox knew you'd already pocketed over thirty mil from index futures in just the past month or so, they might've skipped this million. You wouldn't miss it anyway."
Since snapping up those 4,500 S&P 500 long futures contracts in mid-May, the index had climbed from around 270 to 287 by last Friday's close.
Westeros had built its positions between 270 and 275, averaging about 272.
So.
In that month-plus span, the contracts' average gain sat at 15 points. Each point meant $2.25 million in profits, putting Westeros's paper gains on the S&P longs at $33.75 million.
And $33.75 million? That was just the opener.
Still, Simon clasped her hand, both of them savoring the check's distinctive paper feel. "I'd miss it, alright. This is a million dollars—more than most folks see in a lifetime."
She tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "With all that cash already, what's the plan?"
He pondered for a second, then shook his head.
Janet blinked in confusion. "What? Or are you gonna pull a Warren Buffett, that cheap old coot—just hoard it all and never spend a dime?"
Recent public figs pegged Buffett's worth at around $2 billion, right in line with her family's fortune.
But the guy had built it from nada through value investing, a rags-to-riches tale that made him a household name across North America.
Simon chuckled at her 'cheap old coot' jab, giving her soft cheek a pinch. "Not cool calling folks that behind their backs. And no, I won't go that route—but right now, what I've got is still peanuts."
"I don't just say it behind his back—I'd say it to his face. Cheap old coot," she huffed with mock haughtiness, swatting his hand away before adding, "Peanuts? You're nineteen, you little punk. Tens of millions, and that's peanuts?"
"You bet," he nodded. "Can't really do squat with it."
"So what do you wanna do, exactly?"
"Tons of stuff," he said, eyeing the woman nestled against him. "Ultimate goal? Conquer the world, obviously."
She nodded along eagerly, not letting up. "Alright, name some you can snag with cash—those are way easier to pull off."
"Cash-bought stuff? First off, killer houses. But I want one in every city I might hit up, all under Westeros's name. L.A., New York, Chicago, San Fran, Miami, Vegas, London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Venice, Amsterdam, you name it," he rattled off, grinning as her eyes widened. "And yeah, Australia's got to be in there too—Melbourne, Canberra, Brisbane, the works."
Her long lashes batted at the mention of Australia, and she thought, Yeah, peanuts alright.
Forget the insane tab for scooping up mansions in every major global city—the yearly upkeep alone would bankrupt all but a handful of people on the planet.
But.
This was the kind of ambition fit for Janet Johnston's boyfriend.
"So, what else?" she pressed.
"To jet off to any spot that catches my eye whenever? Gotta have private planes—ultra-long-haul ones that can bridge any two cities worldwide. A tweaked Boeing 747 should cut it. You know me, zero security vibes without backups. But two's too on-the-nose, like aping Air Force One. So, make it three."
Three 747s.
Now that.
How much did one 747 even run?
And.
With that many birds, you'd need your own airport, right?
Most crucially, private jet upkeep dwarfed house maintenance. Plenty of moguls leased because they couldn't swing the annual hit—about 10% of the plane's sticker price.
But.
Pricey as it was, this dream screamed cool.
Her anticipation bubbled over. "Keep going?"
"I'd love my own private island," he went on.
Huh?
Disappointment hit her like a wave.
A private island.
Way too straightforward.
She waved the check still clutched in her fist, eyeing him. "Islands like that are a dime a dozen. We've got one in the Aegean—Grandpa snapped it up over a decade back. Twenty-odd square miles, cost him just three mil Aussie bucks at the time."
He shook his head. "Not talking some pint-sized rock."
She blinked. "Then what?"
He mulled it over, then hoisted her from his lap and tugged her into the next-door study.
A world map dominated one wall.
He grabbed a black marker from the nearby whiteboard and, under her watchful curiosity, circled a tiny 'island' on the map. "This spot's perfect—edge of the world, plenty of space. No interest in those specks you can stroll across in under an hour. Here? We could trek for a month straight."
Tasmania.
She stared at his circled pick, a genuine spark of surprise hitting her.
Tasmania dangled off Australia's southeast tip like a continental earring, home to the platypus—the planet's lone egg-laying mammal discovery.
She knew it inside out; it sat right across the water from her Melbourne upbringing.
But Tasmania? Worlds apart from some Aegean speck of twenty square miles. This beast spanned over twenty thousand square miles—leagues beyond your average buyable private paradise.
Even North America's land-hoarding titans like CNN's Ted Turner topped out at a million or two acres. Tasmania's sprawl converted to over ten million; own it all, and Simon would rocket to one of the globe's top private landowners.
After sizing up the map, she turned to him. "Simon, this island's pretty big, you know. Got any idea how massive Tasmania really is?"
"68,401 square kilometers," he reeled off smoothly, sticking to his metric prefs. Noting her puzzled look, he added, "You get it, Jenny. Back then, I was stuck in tiny places with zilch to call my own. Now that I've got the shot—and maybe the means—why not chase those old dreams?"
She caught the world-weariness in his voice—nothing a nineteen-year-old should carry—squeezed his hand tight, and nodded. "We'll make it happen, Simon. No doubt."
He squeezed back. "Damn right. So keep pitching in. You bailed after barely starting last time—stick it out longer this round."
"Nope," she shot back, shaking her head and leaning into him. "Little punk, I've figured out I prefer clinging to you like ivy. You shoot up, I'll scale right with you."
He nodded. "Kinda digging that vibe myself."
"Hehe, total macho streak," she teased, clawing playfully at him like she was scouting prime vine spots. "But hey, no need to wait on those dreams—we can kick things off now."
"Oh?"
She fluttered the check in her free hand, nodding at Tasmania on the map. "68,401 square klicks? That's bigger than a bunch of U.S. states— no way to snag it in one go. But if we start nibbling away now, year by year, it'll be all ours eventually. Place is mostly wild—virgin forests, barren peaks, and scrub. This million alone could grab us a huge chunk. Oh, and there's a few hundred thousand folks living there; we'd need a solid plan to pull this off. Best bet: spin up a bunch of shell corps and buy stealthy, or prices'll skyrocket."
He soaked in her mounting excitement, then checked his watch. "Alright, it's yours to run with. But for now, bed calls."
She let him lead her back without a fuss. He showered, and they tangled up on the king size bed.
But sleep? Not happening—she was excited.
She chattered away about post-Tasmania takeover plans, then circled back to his other wishes. It dragged on past 2 a.m.; his breaths evened out beside her, but her eyes stayed wide.
She replayed every scrap of their midnight dream chat.
Then it clicked.
In so many shared moments, she'd sensed the weight chaining his heart.
Maybe.
All he truly craved, deep down, was freedom.
[GodOfReader: Please leave a dot (.) in this paragraph or the comment section of this chapter if you are still interested to read this stories.]