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July 7th, south shore of Long Island, New York.
The car had barely left Manhattan when Raphael leaned back against the soft leather, watching the scenery shift outside the window. Skyscrapers gave way to green lawns, and the trees lining the highway grew thicker and taller.
Jennifer sat beside him in a deep-blue evening gown, her hair swept up to show off the elegant line of her neck. She hadn't said much the whole ride—just stared quietly out the window.
Raphael glanced at her.
"Nervous?"
She turned, offering a small smile.
"Not nervous. Just curious."
"About what?"
"About why a guy like Paulson would invite a Hollywood newcomer to a private dinner. I've been in this town fifteen years. I've seen how he treats other stars—polite, but always at arm's length. You're different."
Raphael shook his head.
"I'm curious too. Why the hell does a Wall Street kingpin give a damn about me?"
The car kept rolling.
Once they passed through the wrought-iron gates, the whole vibe changed. Manicured lawns, tasteful estates spaced far apart, the occasional flash of a tennis court or pool between the trees. Every house screamed money and privacy.
The driver caught Raphael's eye in the rearview mirror.
"Mr. Lee, we're now on the South Shore—one of the most exclusive pockets on Long Island. Tech billionaires, hedge-fund giants, and A-list Hollywood names all have homes out here."
Raphael nodded. He'd heard about the North Shore versus South Shore split: old money up north, new money down here. Internet bubble winners, Wall Street climbers, and movie stars pulling ten-million-dollar paychecks.
The car stopped in front of a clean white modern villa—three stories, floor-to-ceiling windows, a simple circular fountain out front. Nothing gaudy like the castles he'd pictured. Understated. Expensive as hell.
Raphael stepped out and clocked the cars already parked along the drive: Bentley, Rolls, even a Pagani. Each one worth more than most people made in a lifetime.
Jennifer slipped her arm through his as they headed for the door.
Two black-suited security guys checked the invitation, then stepped aside without a word.
Inside, the foyer opened into a soaring living room with five-meter ceilings and a massive crystal chandelier that turned everything golden. Fifty or sixty people stood in small clusters, champagne flutes in hand, voices low and polished.
The second Raphael walked in, he felt the eyes lock on him. No hostility—just open, appraising stares, like he was fresh merchandise on the auction block.
Jennifer's grip tightened on his arm.
He gave the back of her hand a reassuring pat. We're good.
A server appeared with a tray. They each took a glass of champagne. Nobody in this room cared whether you were legally old enough to drink.
"Raphael Lee."
A voice cut through the hum.
Raphael turned.
A silver-haired man in his mid-fifties stood a few steps away—custom suit, Patek Philippe on the wrist, smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Thomas Carson, Bridgewater Associates." He extended a hand. "Pleasure."
Raphael shook it firmly. "Likewise."
Carson's gaze lingered on Raphael's face for two seconds, then flicked to Jennifer.
"Miss Connelly, didn't expect to see you here."
Jennifer smiled politely. "Mr. Carson."
Carson's attention snapped right back to Raphael.
"Mr. Lee, Henry mentioned you. Said you're a very interesting young man."
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "Did he?"
"He did." Carson took a sip of champagne. "He also said you pulled off some… interesting moves during the World Cup."
The words were light, but something sharp flashed behind them.
Raphael's face stayed blank.
"Just got lucky."
Carson chuckled, didn't push. "Enjoy your evening."
He melted back into the crowd.
Jennifer leaned in close, voice barely above a whisper.
"He was testing you."
"I know."
They kept moving through the room.
Sixty or so guests, roughly even split between men and women. The women sparkled; the men wore suits that cost more than cars. Everyone smiled the same careful, practiced smile.
Raphael recognized a couple faces—Google co-founder, Oracle's horse-faced billionaire, two big Hollywood producers. Most of the others were strangers. Goldman's ultra-high-net-worth clients, no doubt. Nine figures. Ten figures.
His own $1.38 billion suddenly felt… middle-of-the-pack in here.
A few people kept glancing his way, murmuring.
Jennifer got looked at too, but the stares were different—dismissive, like she was just the pretty accessory on his arm.
Raphael realized it in that moment: in this room, Jennifer Connelly wasn't an Oscar winner, wasn't a Yale-Stanford double grad. She was "Raphael Lee's date."
A vase.
Nothing more.
Jennifer clearly felt it, but she never flinched. Just stayed calm at his side.
A woman in a red dress walked past and gave Jennifer a faint, condescending once-over.
Jennifer met her eyes and smiled right back.
The woman blinked and looked away fast.
Raphael glanced down at her.
"You don't seem bothered."
Jennifer shrugged.
"Bothered by what? That they see me as arm candy?"
She took a slow sip of champagne. "These people make more in a year than I'll earn in a lifetime. In their world, Hollywood is just another product line—movies are consumables, stars are consumables. If I couldn't handle that, I would've quit this town years ago."
Raphael looked at her with new respect.
They made one slow lap of the room, exchanging empty pleasantries with a handful of guests. Every single one showed interest in Raphael. Jennifer got the polite half-second glance and nothing else.
At seven-thirty the room suddenly went quiet.
All eyes turned toward the grand staircase.
A man was coming down—sixtyish, silver hair, charcoal three-piece suit, posture like a general. His smile was warm, but the authority behind it was unmistakable.
Henry M. Paulson.
Chairman and CEO of Goldman Sachs.
Guests nodded respectfully as he passed. Paulson smiled back, never breaking stride, walking straight through the crowd… directly toward Raphael.
Every head in the room followed him.
Paulson stopped in front of Raphael and extended his hand.
"Raphael Lee. Welcome."
Raphael shook it. "Mr. Paulson. Thanks for the invitation."
Paulson's gaze held Raphael's for two seconds, then flicked to Jennifer.
"Miss Connelly. I saw A Beautiful Mind. Outstanding performance."
Jennifer smiled. "Thank you."
Paulson's attention returned to Raphael almost immediately.
"Mr. Lee, got a minute to talk privately?"
The energy in the room shifted—subtle, but everyone noticed. Conversations dropped to a hush; eyes drifted their way.
Raphael nodded.
"Of course."
He turned to Jennifer. "I'll be right back."
She gave him a soft smile. "Take your time."
Raphael followed Paulson up the stairs.
Behind them, the low murmurs started again—now carrying a whole new layer of meaning.
The study was on the third floor.
Paulson closed the door behind them. Walnut bookshelves lined three walls, a green banker's lamp glowed on the big desk.
He took the chair behind it and gestured for Raphael to sit opposite.
"Drink?"
"I'm good, thanks."
Paulson leaned back, studying him.
"Mr. Lee, I had my people run a background check."
Raphael stayed silent.
Paulson continued.
"Born 1982. Broke out at nineteen with The Fast and the Furious as the lead. Then Star Wars prequel, Matrix, CK campaign—smooth sailing every step."
He paused.
"But your real talent isn't acting."
Raphael met his eyes. "How so?"
Paulson smiled.
"Last September, at the absolute bottom of the Nasdaq, you dropped fifteen million into Amazon. February this year—another twenty million. Those two positions are now worth about fifty-six million combined."
His voice stayed calm, but each word landed like a nail.
"That could be called good timing—Amazon was cheap."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But the World Cup?"
Raphael didn't blink.
Paulson kept going.
"One point three eight billion dollars. A thousand accounts. Every single match landed exactly the way you bet."
He stared straight into Raphael's eyes.
"Mr. Lee, if sports betting was really that easy, Goldman would own the entire global gambling industry by now."
Raphael shrugged.
"Mr. Paulson, if I told you it was all luck… would you believe me?"
Paulson watched him for a long second, then chuckled.
"Do you want me to believe it?"
Raphael shrugged again.
"What I want you to believe doesn't matter. It's the truth."
Paulson held his gaze another beat, then laughed outright.
"Fair enough. I won't ask again."
He settled back in his chair.
"Let's talk business. I hear you're interested in Marvel?"