"Ten million dollars—utter extravagance. My father founded Motorola in 1928. It took the Galvin family sixty years to build even modest wealth, yet I still struggle to fathom how a single party could consume ten million dollars. It's as absurd as Westeros earning over a billion dollars in mere months. I believe the Brady Commission should investigate Simon Westeros first. Once we uncover the truth behind that, we'll likely understand the cause of last year's crash."
"Mr. Galvin, all of Westeros's transactions from last year have been made public. No irregularities were found."
"Jim, do you truly trust the figures reported in the media?"
"I can only say, Mr. Galvin, that I haven't seen any alternative set of data released. With sums exceeding a billion dollars involved, I'm certain federal authorities conducted an exhaustive review of Westeros. If his trades last year had violated regulations, he might be spending his twentieth birthday in prison right now."
"I still refuse to believe he's innocent. Otherwise, this would mark the most lamentable event in federal financial history. So many toil diligently their entire lives—generations, even—without amassing great wealth. Yet this young man accomplished it in five months. Can you imagine? Five months—[Redacted] billion dollars." On the television screen, Motorola chairman Robert Galvin grew increasingly agitated, gesturing wildly. "And then he begins squandering it recklessly, like a foolish heir who suddenly inherits a fortune—buying planes and mansions at whim, throwing away ten million dollars on a single birthday party."
[TL/N: It's redacted because i forgot.]
"Mr. Galvin, compared to many other celebrities, Westeros remains quite low-key. And a twentieth birthday surely deserves a proper celebration, doesn't it?"
"Westeros could do something far more meaningful. He's an orphan—everyone knows that. He grew up supported by the federal welfare system. Yet now, no one sees him attempting to give back to this country or to the taxpayers who provided his food, shelter, and education. I've heard numerous charities have tried contacting him, but not one has received a response. His indifference to philanthropy is chilling."
"Mr. Galvin, may I interpret this as personal resentment over Westeros selling Motorola stock? As I understand it, before Simon Westeros divested, Motorola's share price exceeded seventy-five dollars, but in recent months it has hovered around sixty. In contrast, many companies held by Westeros have seen steady gains. I've also heard you've faced criticism from Motorola's board and may step down soon."
"No, no—of course those rumors are untrue. Westeros's selling certainly disrupted our stock price, but it hasn't affected the company's performance. Last year, Motorola posted profits exceeding three hundred million dollars. In my view, share price is temporary; generating profits for shareholders is a company's true foundation. As for my personal situation, I'm sixty-six now and have been considering retirement for years. This has nothing to do with Westeros's divestment."
"…"
"…"
Inside the Malibu mansion, it was already noon the following day.
Janet entered Simon's study, listened briefly to the television interview with Motorola chairman Robert Galvin, and waited until Simon finished his phone call. She picked up the remote and switched off the set. "You enjoy hearing people discuss you in public?"
Since that morning, both mainstream outlets and tabloids had sensationalized Simon's birthday party with eye-catching headlines.
Pat Kingsley had called earlier, updating him on key media developments and joking that she would be occupied for some time managing the fallout.
Simon sat at his desk, jotting notes in a notebook. "Knowing someone out there despises you can be remarkably motivating. Has your brother arrived?"
Janet leaned forward, arms braced on the desk. "In a few minutes. I came to check if you were off the phone."
"All done," Simon said with a nod, explaining casually, "Amy called. The Writers Guild officially initiated strike voting this morning. A strike this year is now inevitable."
It was February 23. In Simon's memory, the strike had begun March 7. Naturally, a Writers Guild action required member voting rather than a unilateral decision by leadership. With members scattered across North America and abroad, ballots were mailed, a process that typically took two weeks.
Janet listened with mild disinterest. As Simon stood, she linked her arm with his, preparing to leave the study, then gestured toward the television. "Though you won't care what that old man says, I still think you should establish some charitable foundation—even if only for appearances. It's unavoidable. Otherwise, more people will attack you over it in the future."
Due to certain memories, Simon harbored deep reservations about charity, yet he did not oppose Janet's suggestion. "Fine. We'll call it the Simon and Janet Foundation. You can manage it."
Janet shook her head. "No—it should be the Simon and Janet Westeros Foundation."
"Hm. A longer name ensures people notice it."
"Hehe, that's not what I meant."
Laughing as they entered the villa's kitchen, they carried the prepared lunch into the dining room just as the doorbell rang.
They greeted the visitor together. Though Simon had felt no particular anticipation beforehand, meeting Janet's family inevitably brought a measure of restraint.
Anthony Johnston appeared somewhat older than his years, dressed in a crisp gray suit. Roughly Simon's height, he wore a trimmed beard; certain facial features clearly marked him as Janet's brother.
After embracing Janet, Anthony shook Simon's hand warmly and presented a gift in honor of his twentieth birthday. "I could have arrived yesterday, but a London business partner reneged on a deal at the last moment, forcing the delay. Simon, happy birthday."
"Thank you, Tony. Come inside—lunch is ready."
As the three walked toward the villa, Janet unceremoniously seized the gift box from Simon, opening it en route. She examined the watch inside carefully before nodding in approval. "Not bad. From Dad's collection. I thought you might grab something at the airport."
Anthony ignored his sister's teasing and addressed Simon. "Living with Janet must give you frequent headaches. She loves practical jokes."
Simon smiled. "It's manageable."
Janet bristled at the ambiguous reply. "What does 'manageable' mean?"
"That I get headaches occasionally—not too often."
Janet pinched his arm. "If you like, I can make it daily."
Though the Johnston family had already gathered extensive information on Simon—and on his relationship with Janet—through Neil Bennett and Ken Dixon, Anthony only truly relaxed upon witnessing the natural intimacy between his sister and the young man.
After a brief rest, the three settled at the dining table.
Lunch unfolded in a relaxed atmosphere, conversation limited to light, everyday topics.
By one o'clock, Janet—uncharacteristically dutiful—volunteered to clear the dishes. Anthony suggested a private word with Simon, and the two moved to the cliffside terrace overlooking the sea.
The mansion lay west of Dume Point Park. From the terrace railing, the breathtaking seascape stretched before them, while to the left, a prominent rocky promontory jutted somewhat incongruously.
Anthony gazed at the point. "An ideal site for an estate."
Simon replied, "State park."
Anthony shook his head. "Simon, for people like us, nothing is unattainable."
Simon hesitated briefly, then nodded. "All right. I'll find a way to acquire it. It would indeed suit a grand estate. Point Dume Estate… though the name doesn't quite fit. Since it's Dume Point Park, we'll call it Dume Point Manor."
Anthony glanced at him with a smile. "You've had your eye on that land for a while, haven't you?"
Simon nodded. "Of course. Many covet it."
Anthony smiled again and let the subject drop, shifting abruptly. "Simon, do you remember anything about your parents?"
Simon paused, then shook his head. "No."
Anthony hesitated before continuing. "For some reason, the first time I saw your photograph, I felt something inexplicable. Meeting you in person only intensified it. Yet I can't define the sensation. As though we've met before—impossible, of course. You lived in San Francisco until eighteen, and I've only visited the city three times in my life."
"It's probably just déjà vu. Many people experience unfounded familiarity with strangers or events."
"Perhaps," Anthony conceded. "Actually, I hired a detective agency to investigate possible information about your parents—no malice intended; I hope you don't mind. The searches yielded nothing. You were five when a police officer found you on the street and placed you in an orphanage. There's no record of your identity before that. Do you recall anything from earlier?"
Simon genuinely did not mind; he was curious about his own past. If the Johnstons uncovered anything, it would spare him the effort.
He shook his head. "Nothing—or only vague fragments I can't grasp."
"Then we'll leave it." Anthony paused, then asked, "People claiming to be your parents have approached you for recognition, yet you've never responded. I assume you have no desire to find them." He studied Simon. "Do you hate them?"
Simon's expression remained neutral as he shook his head. "I don't even know them. How could I hate them?"
"Then I'm curious—what drives you to become who you are?" Anthony pressed. "Without powerful obsession, someone from the bottom of society rarely achieves what you have. Most simply drift or worsen."
"I've never deeply considered it, Tony," Simon replied, shaking his head. "If you insist on an answer, perhaps it's simply that I want to live better—better than most."
"That doesn't quite convince," Anthony said. "But since you'd rather not explain, I won't pry. Truthfully, my only concern today is when you intend to marry my sister. That, of course, is also my parents' primary worry—they don't want two unmarriageable old princess in the family."
Simon frowned. "Two?"
Anthony paused, then laughed. "I have an aunt—my grandfather's daughter, my father's sister. She was born late, younger than me. Janet must have mentioned her?"
Simon nodded. "She did. Your aunt never married?"
"Since Janet told you, she probably shared some details. My aunt has remained single—and, well, you'll understand when you meet her. Father always worried Janet might follow her influence and avoid relationships." Anthony returned to the point. "So—when do you plan to marry Janet?"
Simon answered without hesitation. "Whenever Janet wishes. I'm not particularly opposed to marriage."
"Then aim to complete it within two years," Anthony urged directly. "You know Janet is twenty-eight. Our parents hope she marries before thirty."
Simon agreed. "Very well."
Anthony studied Simon a moment longer, then smiled. "You've only just turned twenty—twenty-two in two years, still young. Young men often enjoy some indulgence, so long as it isn't excessive and, more importantly, stays out of the media's sight."
Simon offered a wry smile, fully aware of the implication.
Anthony continued undeterred. "Janet is extremely stubborn—identical to my aunt in that regard. Once she chooses you, she won't change her mind. I hope you won't disappoint her. Given her personality, she won't pressure you about marriage either—you must take the initiative yourself."
Simon nodded again. "I will."