Emily's text lit up his phone.
Mr. Lee, the Christie's auction starts at 2 p.m. today. The car will be downstairs on time.
Raphael glanced at it, set the phone down, and shook his head.
Christie's.
Another goddamn art auction.
He thought about yesterday's Pollocks—those chaotic splatters that looked like a blender had exploded—and Jennifer's sarcastic little speech about "feeling" the art instead of pricing it.
She wasn't wrong. He really didn't give a shit.
A painting for tens of millions?
A bronze vessel for over a hundred million?
To him it was all just expensive scrap metal. He'd rather throw the cash into Amazon stock.
But since he was already here… might as well go look.
Raphael changed into a relaxed suit, paused at the bedroom door, and took one last look at Jennifer still passed out on the bed.
She was dead to the world—breathing slow and even, not even close to waking up.
Fair enough. He'd kept her up until four in the morning, making her beg until she signed a full "surrender treaty" before he finally let her sleep.
Note to self: Force Heal for recovery time is straight-up broken.
He didn't wake her. Just slipped out quietly.
At two o'clock sharp the black stretch Lincoln was waiting downstairs.
Same uniformed driver. Emily was already inside, flashing her professional smile the second he climbed in.
"Afternoon, Mr. Lee."
He nodded and settled into the back seat.
The car headed toward midtown Manhattan.
Christie's auction house was near Rockefeller Center—an old-money building with a line of supercars already parked out front.
As Raphael stepped out, he spotted a familiar face walking in: that big golden retriever energy guy who would later start Win School. Yep, that's him.
Emily led him inside.
The hall was packed—two or three hundred people, everyone in full formal wear. Women dripping diamonds, men flashing watches that cost more than most houses.
Raphael scanned the room and picked out a few faces: Wall Street heavy hitters, a couple of Hollywood names, and a handful of old European money types who looked like they'd been rich since the Renaissance.
Emily guided him to seats in the back row.
"If you want to bid, Mr. Lee, just raise your hand."
He nodded.
The auction kicked off fast.
First lot: a Monet water-lily painting. Started at twenty million, climbed to thirty-eight in minutes, and went to a middle-aged Asian guy.
Second lot: a Chinese Western Zhou bronze vessel called the Xi Jia Pan. Opened at fifty million, not much competition, sold for sixty-two.
Raphael watched the staff carry it away like it was made of glass and felt… nothing.
Sure, it probably belonged in a museum.
But spending tens of millions to keep it as a coffee-table decoration?
Hard pass. He'd rather invest in stocks.
Third lot. Fourth. Fifth…
Porcelain, oil paintings, sculptures, ancient books—one after another, prices swinging from millions to nine figures. Every hammer drop brought polite applause and quiet murmurs.
Raphael never raised his hand once. Face completely blank the whole time.
Emily watched him sideways but said nothing.
The auction dragged on for over three hours.
When it finally ended, Raphael stood, rolled his neck, and exhaled.
Emily leaned in. "Nothing caught your eye, Mr. Lee?"
He glanced at her.
"Nope."
She nodded, no follow-up questions.
Outside, dusk had settled over Manhattan. Neon signs were flickering on, sidewalks packed with people.
Raphael stopped at the entrance, not ready to leave yet.
Emily waited quietly beside him.
He thought for a second, then decided to just say it.
"Emily."
"Yes?"
"You guys at Goldman… do you seriously think every Hollywood star wants to buy this stuff?"
She blinked.
Raphael turned to face her.
"Pollocks, Monets, bronze vessels, ancient books—you really think any of that interests me?"
Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Raphael gave a short laugh.
"Never mind. Just take me home."
---
The next day's event was a private gallery tour.
Location: Chelsea, Gagosian Gallery—one of the biggest names in the world.
Raphael had zero clue what made this place special except that the price tags were even crazier than Christie's.
Emily was right there with him again.
The walls were covered in contemporary pieces—some you could actually recognize, most looked like a toddler had gotten into finger paint.
He walked through on autopilot, one thought repeating in his head: People actually pay for this?
At the far end of the hall he stopped.
A massive canvas hung there—pure white background with a few wiggly black lines that looked like a kid's doodle.
Price tag: $12,000,000.
Raphael stared at it for three seconds, then turned to Emily.
"Emily."
"Yes?"
"Quick question."
She met his eyes.
"Ask away."
He pointed at the painting.
"How much do you think this is actually worth?"
She glanced at the tag.
"Twelve million."
Raphael smiled.
"Do you think it's worth twelve million?"
Emily hesitated a second.
"Mr. Lee, I'm not an art critic—"
"I'm not asking if it's worth it."
He cut her off. "I'm asking why Goldman has spent three straight days dragging me to these things. What the hell do you people actually want?"
Emily's face tightened.
"Mr. Lee, this is just—"
"Just what? Just normal networking?"
Raphael's smile turned sharp. "Emily, Goldman doesn't roll out the red carpet for three days straight just so I can stare at some paint. So tell me—what's the play?"
She stayed silent.
Raphael waited another beat, then shrugged.
"Fine. I won't make it hard on you."
He turned and headed for the exit.
"I'll get myself home. No need to drive me."
Emily stood frozen, watching his back disappear through the gallery doors.
---
Back at the apartment it was three in the afternoon.
Jennifer was awake, sipping coffee on the couch.
When she saw him walk in, her face was a mix of tired, satisfied, and a little pissed off.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
He dropped onto the seat across from her.
"How were the events?"
"Mind-numbingly boring."
She laughed.
"I figured you'd say that."
Raphael leaned back, closed his eyes.
Jennifer stood up, walked over, and plopped straight into his lap.
He opened one eye and looked at her.
"Still hungry? Already?"
A flash of nervousness crossed her face.
"No! I just… wanted to know when you're leaving New York."
He rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Jennifer?"
She pressed herself against him, wearing the most content little smile.
"Nothing. I just don't like L.A., so until you leave… I'm staying right here with you."
Raphael didn't answer. Lima and Alessandra lived in New York full-time anyway.
And since he still hadn't learned shadow clones from the Naruto world, he was genuinely running out of bandwidth.
Jennifer didn't push.
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute.
Then his phone rang.
Ari.
"Raphael!"
Same booming voice as always. "Got something you need to know!"
"Shoot."
"Goldman just called me."
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
"Who?"
"Paulson himself."
Ari paused for effect. "Henry M. Paulson—Chairman and CEO of Goldman Sachs."
"Mm-hmm. And?"
"He's inviting you to a private dinner at his Long Island estate tomorrow night. Strictly personal, not a Goldman event."
Raphael thought for half a second.
"What time?"
"Seven o'clock."
"Tell him I'll be there. I'm curious what this guy actually wants."
Ari let out a breath.
"Done. One more thing—private dinners like this… you're expected to bring a date."
Raphael glanced at Jennifer still perched in his lap.
"Got it."
He hung up.
Jennifer looked at him, eyebrows raised.
"Dinner party?"
"Yeah. Goldman's boss—private thing at his place on Long Island."
Her eyes widened.
"Paulson?"
"That's the one."
"That's not a room just anyone gets invited into."
Raphael looked at her.
"You free tomorrow night?"
She blinked.
"You mean…"
"Come with me."
Jennifer's whole face lit up with a mischievous grin.
"Perfect. I've always wanted to see what those Wall Street billionaires actually look like up close."
Raphael nodded, eyes drifting to the darkening New York skyline outside.
"Alright. Bedroom. Now."
Jennifer's expression changed instantly.
"Wait—wait! My period started! I'm serious, let me go!"
Raphael's face stayed blank as he scooped her up fireman-style and marched straight toward the bedroom.
"Period just means we take a different road. Doesn't mean the trip's canceled."
"You bastard! I never should've stayed here to get railed by you—"
The bedroom door shut.
For the next few hours the only sounds coming out were Jennifer's colorful curses… quickly turning into desperate, broken moans… and then finally fading into exhausted silence.
Raphael made sure she learned exactly who ran things between them.
In the words of his past life: he was going to show her just how many eyes the Horse King actually has.
By the time Jennifer woke up the next morning she could barely move.
She groaned, "I'm gonna need at least a week to recover, you animal!"
Even so, the famously independent actress didn't storm out or throw a fit.
Instead she curled up even tighter against him, acting ten years younger—blushing, clingy, full-on honeymoon-phase girlfriend mode.
Raphael didn't care.
And he definitely wasn't worried she'd start eyeing Jessica Alba's spot.
If she got out of line?
He'd just put her back in it.