The entire field was busy, the sounds of machines, mixing, drilling and stuff.
At exactly 2:00 PM, a car glided into the open field.
Not just any car.
A Rolls-Royce Phantom Series II, sleek black, glossy enough to reflect the entire construction site.
Its arrival silenced the entire field.
A man stepped out.
Sharp suit.
Polished shoes.
Silver hair perfectly styled.
Dark shades.
An expensive wristwatch that glittered even under the dull sun.
Perfect posture.
A presence that screamed power.
He looked around fifty—elegant, commanding, wealthy without trying.
Even the air around him felt richer.
The workers froze, staring in disbelief until the supervisor snapped:
“Back to work!
NOW!”
He rushed to the man, bowing almost.
“Welcome, Sir Alex.
This way please.”
Sir Alex.
Vice-Chairman of the Hale Conglomerate.
The man whose signature could elevate or ruin a business.
The workers exchanged quiet laughs.
They used to fear Harold.
Harold feared the supervisor.
And now the supervisor feared this man.
Who knew—maybe even Alex had someone above him.
Almost an hour later, Alex stepped out of the building.
The supervisor followed him like a trembling shadow.
Karan whispered to Levi, “Funny how one moment he’s our superior, and the next, he’s no better than us.”
“The ladder of social status.
There’s always someone above.”
Karan snorted.
“Not above William Hale.
That man could start World War Three and no one would stop him.”
But then he paused.
“Hey… Levi… I think that man is looking at us.”
“What?” Levi turned.
He froze.
Alex—Sir Alex—was indeed looking directly at them.
Not a casual glance.
A focused stare.
Then, slowly, Alex removed his shades.
And it became clear:
He was staring at Levi.
“Hey, hey, look away,” Karan whispered quickly.
“Look away before he comes here.”
Karan immediately bowed his head.
Levi didn’t.
For a few seconds, he held eye contact with the powerful man—calm, steady, unafraid.
Only then did he turn away.
Moments later, Alex’s Rolls-Royce vanished, leaving only dust behind.
The supervisor exhaled loudly, the tension was too much for him to handle, so he jumped into his car, and sped off.
The workers relaxed, returning to normal.
But Levi?
He felt eyes lingering on him long after the man left.
San Francisco was full of contrasts—quiet neighborhoods, vibrant streets, artistic districts, wealthy corners—but nothing compared to Silver Leaf Heights.
It was the district of the elite.
A place named for people “born with silver spoons,” though many said “silver” didn’t do their wealth justice.
Some called them Victorians—modern royalty.
The district looked like something built for an emperor:
It was a place where isolation was a luxury, defined not by distance but by total privacy; only the most elite families inhabited this stretch of winding, tree-lined road, where every estate was a fortress of refinement.
The street itself was a gallery of grand architecture, guarded by massive, ornate wrought-iron gates that stood like sentinels at the head of every driveway.
These towering gates, accented with gold leaf and anchored by heavy stone pillars, ensured that only those with the proper credentials could glimpse the opulence within.
Behind these formidable barriers, each mansion—much like the Hales’ residence—was set deep within vast, manicured grounds to ensure no two houses were ever truly in view of one another.
The air here was filled with the rhythmic splash of multi-tiered stone fountains, which served as the majestic centerpieces of sweeping motor courts and emerald-green lawns.
This was a neighborhood where space was the ultimate currency, and every fountain and sprawling garden wall signaled a legacy of immense, quiet wealth.
And at the far northern end stood the estate of the Hales—the most powerful family among them all.
The Hale mansion was not simply big.
It was incredible.
Intimidating.
Grand in a way that made every other house seem like it was trying too hard.
The black wrought-iron gate carried a proud signature H in the center.
A guard house by the gate.
Guards—at least seven—stood from the front gate spread around the yard, all the way to the doorway.
All in black.
Earpieces.
Cold expressions.
Possibly armed.
Alex stepped out of his car, the driver disappearing instantly.
As he approached the door, it swung open automatically.
He walked inside, moving with the confidence of someone who belonged everywhere.
He walked passed the “waiting room,” a space designed to impress without needing a word.
This elegant foyer immediately captured attention with its dramatic, circular ceiling accent and a stunning, tiered chandelier that dripped crystal light onto the polished wood floors.
The entire space was dedicated to comfortable arrival, featuring a grouping of plush, custom-built, semi-circular sofas in a muted champagne tone.
This intimate arrangement, centered around a smooth stone table, offered a soft, luxurious welcome, establishing a tone of refined wealth the moment one stepped inside.
Up the grand staircase.
Down the first-floor hallway.
Into a dim room.
He switched the lights on.
“Good evening, sir,” he greeted respectfully.
A weak voice replied from within the shadows:
“Hello, old friend.