In a noisy bar near campus, the air was saturated with the smell of spilled beer, the sweat of victory, and the incessant echo of laughter.
The track team had practically taken over the place to celebrate a feat that was already shaping up to be legendary: Laura Soler’s incredible comeback in the 400 meters.
“That final stretch was a hell of a show, Soler!” one of her teammates exclaimed, raising a foamy mug with a gesture of genuine admiration.
“Where the hell did you get that energy from?
It looked like someone injected you with rocket fuel in the last fifty meters”.
One of her closest friends burst out laughing and gave the champion a knowing nudge.
“I have a theory,” she said, lowering her voice just enough for the group to lean in.
“It was because of that weird guy in the front row.
Did you see him?
He was pretty handsome, in those designer clothes, but suddenly he started shouting like a madman about…
chocolate ice cream?
It was the strangest, most out-of-place thing I’ve ever seen on a track”.
Several team members burst into laughter, remembering the bizarre scene.
However, Laura didn’t join in the mocking.
Recognizing that they were talking about Max, she felt a sudden, treacherous heat rise up her neck and tint her cheeks.
She tried to hide a smile behind her glass, letting the cold liquid calm her internal flutter.
To the others, Max had been a comic sideshow; to her, his shout had been an anchor—a private message sent across an ocean of strangers.
In the middle of the crowd, he had found the only frequency that could wake her up, and that made her feel incredibly special.
That same night, the silence of the student dorms was Max’s refuge.
He was sitting at his desk, with the brass lamp’s light bathing his notes, as he mentally replayed Victoria’s message.
What new strategy would the campus queen have in mind?
Did she want to inject more capital through her trust fund, or was it just another of her elaborate tests of loyalty?
His mind was working at full speed, but a persistent image kept getting in the way of his plans: the look from Clara Pons.
At the Circle meeting, Clara hadn’t looked at him with Leo’s childish disdain, nor with Isa’s scientific curiosity.
Her gaze had been that of one predator studying another of the same rank; cold, patient, and absolutely lethal.
Max understood that he couldn’t afford to have a blind spot as dangerous as an heiress who combined a ‘shark’ lineage with a mind educated in real financial wars.
“I’m not going to be anyone’s prey”, he whispered to himself.
With a decisive move, he opened his new and powerful laptop.
The screen’s glow lit up his eyes, which now reflected a strategic coldness.
He pushed Victoria’s summons aside for the moment; she was a known ally, but Clara was an unknown with the power to sink him.
He spent the rest of the late night hours conducting a deep dive.
He didn’t just read the news; he looked for patterns in the Pons family’s investment history, analyzed the shell companies Clara discreetly managed, and mapped out her political connections.
Every click, every piece of data absorbed by his [Eidetic Memory], was another wall he built in his own fortress.
He was profiling his most dangerous rival, preparing for the moment when their paths would stop being parallel and collide head-on.
The following day, when the sun reached its zenith, Max prepared for the appointment with a methodical composure.
He chose a linen shirt in a deep blue shade that highlighted the clarity of his eyes and a pair of dark, impeccably cut trousers that fit his new silhouette with precision.
Looking in the mirror, he didn’t search for flaws; instead, he recognized the transformation: his shoulders had a broader base, and his posture was that of a man no longer carrying the weight of failure, but rather that of ambition.
He was no longer dressing to ‘fit in’ to someone else’s world; he was dressing to claim his place within it. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
He arrived at the terrace of the campus Social Club, an enclave of silent luxury where silver cutlery clinked against porcelain and conversations about inheritances were kept to whispers.
Victoria was already waiting for him, seated at a table with privileged views of the botanical garden.
In front of her, a glass of sparkling water with a lemon slice was her only accessory.
When Max approached, she didn’t greet him immediately.
She let her gaze, sharp and expert, roam over Max’s outfit, from the collar of his shirt to the drape of his trousers.
A slow, satisfying smile of approval played on her lips.
“Well, well,” Victoria said, drawing out the syllables with a hint of amusement, throwing back the provocation of their first meeting.
“I’m glad to see you dressed well for our date, scholarship kid.”
After an exchange of pleasantries charged with that intellectual magnetism that had become their common language, Victoria set aside the levity and leaned forward slightly.
The atmosphere turned purely professional.
“I have a commission for you,” she began.
“My cousin is moving to the city next month.
She’s rented a spectacular penthouse, but it’s completely empty.
I mentioned to her that I knew an ‘expert in undervalued assets’ with a peculiar taste for what others consider old or second-hand”.
Max arched an eyebrow, catching the subtext instantly.
She was validating the lesson he had given her at the Morales’ antique shop, but now she was elevating it to the rank of business.
“I’m offering you the opportunity to manage the project,” she continued.
“You’ll be in charge of furnishing and decorating the apartment from scratch.
The budget is generous, worthy of my family name.
But here’s the deal: any savings you achieve relative to the initial budget will be entirely yours.
Additionally, you’ll earn a fixed 10% commission on the total value of the investment.
Consider it your first real test as a strategic consultant.”
The offer was a masterstroke.
Victoria wasn’t giving him a handout; she was handing him a platform to generate his own capital using his intellect.
It was a test of trust and, at the same time, a way to bind him more closely to her circle of influence.
“It will be a pleasure,” Max accepted with a calm that hid the mental calculation of the possibilities.
“Your cousin will be satisfied, and you’ll confirm that your investment in me was the smartest in your portfolio.
When do we start this ‘shopping tour’?”
They agreed on a date for the following week.
Max left the terrace feeling the board of his life expanding.
He was no longer just operating with algorithms and bets; now he was beginning to handle physical assets and elite reputations.
The construction of the empire moved forward by one more brick, and this time, the brick was made of mahogany and silk.
That night, back in the solitude of his room—a space that, thanks to the mahogany and leather, no longer felt like a university cell but a command center—Max allowed himself a moment of relaxation.
He took off the linen shirt, feeling the cool night air, and lay back on the bed.
The glow of his phone was the only light in the dimness.
He searched for Laura’s contact.
There was something satisfying about fulfilling promises, especially those not written on paper, but sealed with the sweat of a workout.
Max: How was the party?
I hope the victory hangover isn’t hitting you too hard.
Laura: Hahaha!
I barely survived the team.
They made me dance on a table.
But it was worth every second!
Max: I’m glad.
Soak it in, you earned it.
I still have a few things to wrap up.
See you at the gym tomorrow…
let’s see if you can keep up.
By the way, enjoy your prize.
Laura: Prize?
What prize?
Max cracked a calculating smile and set his phone aside, ignoring the subsequent vibrations.
In his mind, he was already visualizing the next piece on the board, but for now, the ball was in the deliveryman’s court.
A few miles away, in a modest house that smelled of muscle balm and the satisfying fatigue of an athlete, Laura frowned at her phone.
She was in her pajamas, hair pulled back in a messy bun, her leg muscles still pulsing from the last day’s effort.
She was about to put her phone down when her doorbell broke the silence of the night.
Confused and on high alert, she approached the door.
Upon opening it, she found a young delivery guy wearing the crisp uniform of ‘La Dolce Vita’, the city’s most exclusive artisanal ice cream parlor—a place where the lines usually wrapped around the block and whose prices were a forbidden luxury for someone on a student budget.
“Special delivery for ‘the champ’.” the young man said with a professional smile.
He handed her a high-quality thermal bag, heavy and firm.
Laura took it mechanically, processing the surprise.
As she closed the door, her heart began to beat with a cadence that had nothing to do with exercise.
She opened the bag on the kitchen counter.
Inside, perfectly preserved by the cold, was a massive tub of her favorite dark chocolate ice cream with double caramel sauce and sea salt crystals—her confessed guilty pleasure.
Tucked next to the container was a small note on high-quality stationery, written in a firm, decisive hand.
“A contract is a contract.
Enjoy it.
-M”
Laura stood still, holding the note between her fingers.
The coldness of the container contrasted with the sudden heat that rose up her neck, tinting her cheeks a deep red.
Max hadn’t just remembered her ‘secret fuel’; he had gone to the trouble of finding the best in the city and getting it to her in the middle of the night.
It wasn’t a generic gift; it was a validation of her words in the gym.
He was actually listening to her.
“This rookie…” she whispered to herself, letting out a soft laugh that vibrated between amusement, wonder, and a new emotion—sweet and cold like the ice cream—that was beginning to claim a space in her heart.
She sat on the sofa, turned on the TV to find some cheesy movie, and as she sank her spoon into the chocolate, she realized that Max was turning out to be the most unpredictable workout partner of her life.