351-355

Chapter 351: The Backup Little Mom

At 3 p.m. in Manhattan’s Upper East Side, the air felt like it’d been boiled—hot enough to choke you. Sunlight poured down like a golden waterfall, drenching the bustling neighborhood and gilding every building with a dazzling edge.

A few black Cadillac Escalades rolled up like steady beasts, easing to a stop in front of the carved iron gates. Their glossy paint glinted coldly under the harsh light, silently screaming the owner’s VIP status.

David, decked out in a crisp uniform, his white gloves blinding in the sun, pressed the remote with practiced grace. The iron gates parted with a soft whir of gears, revealing the courtyard’s centerpiece: a gilded lion fountain, supposedly snagged by Liu Li at a Christie’s auction in New York, modeled after Versailles.

The little fountain sparkled under the blazing sun, its lion carved so lifelike it might leap out any second. Swarovski crystals studded the spout, twinkling like stars and scattering rainbow light. Water trickled down with a crisp, cheerful sound, cutting through the afternoon heat with a touch of cool charm.

That tiny decoration set Milo back over a million bucks. Thing is, it’s no antique—just a modern knockoff. Real value? Maybe $100,000, tops.

Milo’s pretty sure Liu Li got played at that auction. Happens all the time—fattened sheep get fleeced. No big deal, usually. He’s not hurting for cash. But someone targeting his mistress to rip her off? That’s a problem. If he didn’t know, fine. Now that he does? No way he’s letting it slide.

The CIA, FBI, even the DEA—someone’s already digging for him. Private detective firms under United Global are in on it too. Milo’s out to teach those greedy jerks a lesson: he’s fiercely protective, especially when it comes to his women and kids. Mess with them, and he’s like volatile antimony—poke him, and he’ll blow.

Inside the Escalade Beast, little Paladin was bouncing with excitement, thrilled to tag along with Dad and meet a new sister. His cheeks flushed red as he pressed against the window, eyes wide with wonder. “Lion! Lion!” he squealed in his high, babyish voice, pure and bright like a summer breeze, melting away some of the sticky heat.

Liu Li stepped out in a silk house dress, graceful as a blooming lily. A light wind lifted the hem, and a faint whiff of her elegant perfume drifted through the air, adding a soft allure. She bent down with a warm smile, ready to kiss little Paladin.

Back when she’d been Milo’s live-in maid for six months, she’d helped look after some of his older kids—like Sophie’s twins and this little Blackwell heir right here. Paladin seemed to recognize her too, chirping happily, “Xiao’an, afternoon! Dad says you’re the new sister’s mom, right?”

“Yep,” Liu Li grinned, clearly delighted. She knew this kid held a special spot in Milo’s heart. She scooped up little Robin—about the same age as her own second daughter—from Milo’s arms.

Right then, Robin’s chubby hand latched onto the South Sea pearl necklace dangling from Liu Li’s chest. With a fierce tug and a sharp snap, the clasp broke, scattering glossy pearls across the marble floor like playful sprites, clinking merrily. A $30,000 piece, trashed down to a few hundred bucks.

Neither Milo nor Liu Li batted an eye, let alone scolded her. Liu Li just told the nanny to clean it up, then carried Robin in one arm, holding Paladin’s hand with the other as they headed inside.

The moment they stepped in, 13-year-old Anxi came gliding down the spiral staircase, cradling Penny. The wooden steps creaked faintly under her feet, adding a quirky rhythm to the scene. Penny’s silver longevity locket caught the sunlight, flashing bright.

Little Paladin darted forward, peering curiously at this new sister who looked nothing like his own little Robin. “Is this my new sister? She’s so pretty—not like Robin at all. Her hair’s black!”

He spun around to Milo. “Dad, why’s that?”

“Because her mom’s hair is black too,” Milo explained. “She takes after her mom, so her hair’s black.”

“But Dad, my hair’s golden. Mom’s hair is… uh, what’s that word again?”

“Brown.”

“Right, Mom’s hair is brown. But mine’s golden.”

“What color’s my hair?”

“Dad’s hair is golden like mine!”

“Exactly. Your hair takes after me, so it’s golden.”

“Then why does my new sister’s hair look like her mom’s, but mine looks like yours?”

“It’s a big, complicated thing called genetics. When you’re older and in school, your teachers will explain it.”

“Okay,” Paladin nodded, half-getting it, half-not.

Liu Li watched from the side, a mix of envy and resignation in her chest. She knew not all of Milo’s illegitimate kids were equal. Take this one—sure, he’s a bastard too, but he hit the genetic jackpot, practically a mini-Milo. Named little Paladin, looking every bit like his dad. Liu Li had seen Milo’s childhood pics—nine out of ten, they’re a match. Barely a hint of Hayley in him.

The Blackwell family even spun a story: little Paladin was born from frozen sperm of the late Paladin via modern tech. People saw his face and bought it instantly—he really did look like his “dead dad.” Guess it helps when certain brothers were near-identical growing up.

Liu Li figured little Paladin’s golden status in the family wasn’t just Hayley’s high rank or her special place in the Blackwell clan—it was how much he resembled Milo and his brother. You can’t fake that kind of luck. Penny’s a girl with black hair, likely to take after her more. Liu Li just hoped the boy in her belly would lean toward his dad—golden hair and all—for that extra dose of paternal love.

Soon, the two ten-month-olds, the two-year-ten-month-old, and the thirteen-year-nine-month-old were whisked off by nannies to the fourth-floor playroom. Anxi, used to wrangling Penny, turned into the ringleader, playing with little Paladin like a pro. She loved it, and it showed—getting Paladin giggling, the two tinies crawling and cackling after their big brother and sister. All four kids were having a blast.

Through the monitor, Milo watched with a pleased grin, glancing at Liu Li beside him. “Not bad. Anxi’s great with them.”

“Yeah,” Liu Li nodded. “She adores Penny. When she’s not studying, she’s the one taking care of her.”

“Nice. Wonder if she’ll be this patient with her own kids someday.”

Liu Li froze at that, hesitating before speaking softly. “M-Milo… Anxi’s had her first period.”

“What?” He didn’t quite catch it.

She took a deep breath, forcing logic over emotion. “Anxi’s got her cycle now. She’s ovulating—she can have kids!”

Milo went quiet, staring at this angelic mom for a long stretch before asking, “When did that happen?”

“Just these past two months…”

“Looks like little Anxi’s growing up.”

“S-so, darling Milo, why don’t you stay tonight? Let Anxi… keep you company?”

Another long silence followed, but then he said, “Nah. She’s of age, sure, but still too young. Your people tend to develop a bit later anyway.”

Liu Li exhaled, a jumble of relief, disappointment, and quiet joy swirling inside—too messy to pin down.

So Milo stuck around with Hayley’s two kids at Liu Li’s place until evening. After the kids ate dinner together, dusk settled in, the night’s chill creeping over Manhattan. The sky deepened to blue, dotted with twinkling city lights.

Hayley’s cousin—Milo’s current assistant—whispered a reminder: he had a charity auction lined up tonight, hosted by Paladin Media. He’d take the stage at the peak, closing the gala with a perfect flourish. Big deal—it was his show, after all. The kids, especially Paladin and Robin, clung to Anxi, their beloved ringleader, not wanting to leave.

Did the little siblings know their favorite playmate nearly became their dad’s baby-maker that night? As they piled into the car, Robin even started wailing. Anxi, struck by a sudden thought, walked up to Milo with a shy smile. “Bye, Dad. You should pay me by the minute for emotional labor—I put three Blackwell heirs to bed!”

“You’ll be putting more to bed later. Some might even come from your belly.”

One line, and the girl who’d mustered the guts to chat with him blushed crimson. Her usual awkwardness only eased up because Milo’d been around more lately, always warm with her—familiar enough to dull the nerves.

“Alright, I’m heading out. Know what to do?”

“Mm,” Anxi murmured sweetly, stepping in for her mom to plant a daughterly kiss on her so-called dad.

So when Milo slid back into the car, little Paladin piped up, “Dad, is Anxi my sister too?”

“Sort of.”

“Then why’d you hug and kiss her so long? So long that—look—Robin fell asleep!”

“It’s normal for dads to kiss their daughters.”

“But you don’t kiss Lily or Rose that long. You only kiss Mom and them like that.”

“…”

Okay, Milo got it—his kids weren’t your average bunch. Genes or some rebirth mysticism, who knows? Lily, Rose, little Paladin—all freakishly sharp, growing fast. Paladin’s two years and ten months but nearly the height of a four-year-old, with a six- or seven-year-old’s IQ. Treating them like regular kids wouldn’t cut it.

“Anxi’s different from you guys. You can’t call her your sister. She’s… well, more like your backup mom.”

“What’s a backup mom?”

“Backup means substitute—like the hockey game we saw, when I explained the bench players. A backup mom’s a substitute mom.”

“Oh, I get it! So Anxi’s gonna be my mom someday?”

“Yep, smart kid.”

“Yay! Another mom! Let’s see—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… I’ve got ten moms now?!”

That’s every woman of Milo’s he’d met.

“Nope, you’ve only got one mom. The rest? Call them mom or auntie, whatever you want.”

“I’ll call them moms. I think they like it when I do.”

“Up to you. Tired after all that playing?”

“Yeah…”

“Then sleep. Robin’s out already.”

“Okay, Dad… I love you.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

The two kids got dropped off at Milo’s usual Long Island estate, but he headed to Lincoln Center in New York—specifically, the Metropolitan Opera House, the flashiest gem in the complex. Home to the Met Opera and American Ballet Theatre, its massive glass arches glowed with chandelier light, framed by Chagall’s giant hanging murals. Legends like Carreras and Pavarotti had sung there.

Tonight, though, it wasn’t about vocal artistry. Paladin Media had rented it out for a charity gala auction. By the time Milo arrived, the event was peaking—most items already sold.

At the entrance, Kimble greeted him with a big grin. “Oh, Milo! Everything’s perfect—just waiting for you!”

Ivanka’s dad, stepping up, had helped pull the night together.

“Nice. How’s it going? Ambassador show up?”

“Yep, he’s in the back, waiting for your grand entrance.”

“Cool, let me meet him first.”

“No problem.” Kimble hollered down the hall, “Hey, Li, hurry up! Mr. Blackwell’s here—he wants to say hi!”

A middle-aged Chinese man with glasses and a warm smile bolted out from the corridor. “Mr. Blackwell, hello! I’m Anke Li—that’s my English name. My Chinese name’s Li Zhaoxin. Thank you so much for helping our country—really, thank you!”

Chapter 352: More Devilish Than the Rothschilds

“No need to be so polite, Mr. Anke Li.”

At the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York’s Lincoln Center, Milo flashes a smile at Li Zhaoxin.

“You know, you folks call me ‘a good friend of the Chinese people.’ As a friend, I think exchanging little gifts is only natural. Didn’t you give me something I wanted too?”

Li Zhaoxin gives a reserved smile, knowing Milo’s referring to a recent deal.

Not long ago, the Chengdu Panda Conservation Park in China agreed to loan a pair of pandas to the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston.

The Franklin Park Zoo spans 72 acres, housing over 220 species and more than a thousand animals. It’s got a tropical zone and all, but no pandas—until now.

It started when Ivanna’s kid, Little Kemp, saw a panda cartoon and said he wanted to see one in real life. Around the same time, China invited Milo to their National Day celebration—a big deal this time, marking their 50th anniversary.

During a casual chat with Li Zhaoxin, Milo mentioned he’d love for Boston’s zoo to have those adorable pandas.

Guess they took him seriously, because soon after, the Franklin Park Zoo and Chengdu sealed the deal. The pandas are already at Boston customs, getting quarantined and acclimated to the local weather.

When word got out that pandas were coming to Boston, the locals went wild with excitement.

Pandas are something else—people all over the world genuinely adore them, and it’s not just because they’re rare. Sure, their classic black-and-white look helps, but there’s more to it. Maybe it’s that they’re technically fierce beasts but so darn cute anyway.

After that, Milo told Li Zhaoxin’s embassy crew he’d like to send a little gift back to China.

And that gift? It’s inside right now, up for auction.

Inside the Grand Guild Theatre, temporarily turned into an auction hall, the vibe is unreal.

A lavish crystal chandelier hangs from the domed ceiling, its countless prisms scattering a warm, honeyed glow across the room. It’s like a dreamy veil draped over everything.

The air’s tinged with faint perfume and buzzing tension as all eyes lock onto the auction stage.

The auctioneer, sharp in a black suit, stands tall. His voice cuts through the silence like a taut violin string, piercing and clear:

“A Western Zhou bronze square yi from China, dating back to 700 BCE—2,700 years of history in this stunning masterpiece! Starting bid: three million—”

Before he can finish, the room erupts.

“Five million!” A white socialite with emerald earrings gracefully raises her paddle.

“Seven million!” A translator for some desert prince lazily lifts a gold-lacquered cane.

But then—

“Ten million.” Milo’s voice, low and steady, slices through the rising tide of bids like a blade.

For a split second, the hall freezes, plunged into dead silence.

Heads turn. There’s Milo, smiling at the crowd from among his entourage.

Velvet chairs rustle as people shift in shock. Then someone yells, “It’s Mr. Blackburn! Mr. Blackburn!”

The place explodes with chatter. Almost everyone’s on their feet, craning to get a closer look at this living legend of American wealth.

No one dares bid against him. The item’s his.

Next thing you know, it’s announced that Milo Blackburn’s gifting it back to China as a small token for their 50th anniversary.

On top of that, this Christie’s auction—organized by Paladin Media—will donate a third of the proceeds to charity. The cause? Education for kids in third-world countries.

Li Zhaoxin knows that, thanks to Paladin Media’s maneuvering, China’s Ministry of Education will snag a third of that chunk—along with the reclaimed, symbolic bronze artifact.

That’s Milo Blackburn, “friend of the Chinese people,” handing over these gifts in 1999, a year dripping with meaning.

It’s why Li Zhaoxin made the trip from Washington to thank him in person.

Sure, just a few months back, Li was lodging stern protests and condemnations against the U.S. on behalf of his country. But that’s state-to-state stuff—down here, they can still play nice.

Especially now, with U.S.-China ties tense but nowhere near a breaking point. The Blackburn family stepping up as China’s buddy sends a big signal to the world.

As for whether this’ll piss off America’s hawkish crowd?

Come on. Even if they’re annoyed, would they dare say it to Milo Blackburn’s face?

Where were they when Morgan, Rockefeller, and even Mellon were tripping over themselves to cozy up to that country back in the day?

Besides, America’s huge—Milo’s not the only one with good ties to China.

And if you wanna take it a billion steps back: What’s America, anyway? A hydra with nine heads, each with its own agenda. If a few heads hate a country, you can bet others will cozy up to it.

Don’t treat America like some unified blob—it’s a nation without a single dominant ethnicity. The only glue is a shared identity: “American.”

And what’s an American? Anyone chasing the American Dream.

So tonight, showing up at the auction, buying the piece, and gifting it to China? For Milo, it’s just a little side gig.

---

The next day, August 17, 1999.

Out in the suburbs—technically New Jersey now, but just a dozen kilometers from NYC’s heart—at the 14th hole of the Kemp National Golf Club.

August cicadas screech through the pine needles. Jacob Rothschild’s white glove creaks against his titanium club as he grips it.

He eyes the green 300 yards away, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his silk scarf.

“Doesn’t Mr. Blackburn think this bunker’s design is clever? Like the finance section of The Wall Street Journal—looks flat, but every crease hides a skeleton.”

Milo’s Polo shirt clings to his back, sweat darkening the fabric. His custom golf shoes crush a patch of wild clover.

He pulls off his sunglasses, blue eyes catching the jagged shadows of the bunker’s edge.

“If that’s the case, I’d say at least a third of those skeletons have the esteemed Rothschild name on them, don’t you think?”

Jacob chuckles, taking Milo’s jab as a compliment.

Fair enough—it’s true.

The Rothschilds were the first family to bend the world with finance. At their peak, they were dubbed the “Sixth Empire,” practically running Europe’s power game.

Too bad two world wars broke their back.

That’s when America shot up.

Since then, the Rothschilds have been sliding, with no bottom in sight. They haven’t hit rock bottom yet…

But just like Morgan dreams of a true J.P. Morgan revival, or Rockefeller pines for Standard Oil’s rebirth, which Rothschild wouldn’t kill to see their family reclaim that Sixth Empire glory?

Crack!

The swing sends a flock of starlings scattering. The white ball arcs through the air, landing on the bunker’s edge, kicking up a golden dust cloud.

Jacob wipes the titanium clubhead with a silk handkerchief, knuckles whitening from the grip. “Mr. Blackburn, I’m here to ask for help.”

Milo’s club freezes mid-swing, angled 37 degrees against the sunlight.

Grass flies as he strikes. The ball skims the bunker’s edge, rolling toward the hole and stopping three inches shy.

“Why’d you say that? What could I possibly do for you?”

“You know what I mean,” Jacob says. “Honestly, Mr. Blackburn, this time neither the Rothschilds nor the Nosirs got much out of their enemies. Barring any surprises, you’re the one who’ll come out on top.”

“Haha…” Milo laughs. “I just try to be nice to people. I don’t pick fights. That way, I can step in when the timing’s just right.”

He bends to pick up his ball, a cross pendant slipping from his collar, flecked with grass.

“Your family built its rep a hundred years ago. So a century later, as long as you’re still kicking, those old enemies won’t ever stop coming for revenge.”

Jacob’s glove strap snaps open, the metal clasp bouncing into the bunker.

He yanks off the other glove, stuffing it in his pocket, revealing a faded family tattoo at the base of his pinky—a Prussian blue Seal of Solomon.

Every recognized Rothschild gets one.

King Solomon, son of David, third king of the ancient Jewish united kingdom. To the “squid people,” he’s roughly what the First Emperor is to the Chinese.

“We can offload our 17% stake in The Wall Street Journal,” Jacob says, his gold-rimmed glasses fogging with sweat, “plus three board seats at Chase Manhattan Bank.”

Crazy? Yeah, a little.

Even now, the Rothschilds hold chunks of Chase Manhattan and board seats in key Morgan companies.

Way back, they owned the whole show—Morgan was just their U.S. errand boy, and Rockefeller was their pawn to take on America’s then-richest family, the Vanderbilts.

Irony is, the errand boys kicked out the bosses and took over the New World.

Milo flicks a dandelion off the green with his putter, yellow petals sticking to the sweet spot.

A lawnmower hums in the distance as pine-scented wind lifts his silver bangs. “I want a cross-shareholding deal with the Fed,” he says.

The putter’s crisp tap rings like the stock exchange closing bell. “And your spot at Condé Nast.”

Jacob’s cigar cutter freezes midair, tobacco scraps falling onto his custom Oxfords.

As he bites the Havana cap, his pupils shrink from the bitter sting. “You know what the Rothschild name stands for.” His lighter flame flickers. “1815, Waterloo…”

“1815, you made 20 million pounds off carrier pigeons. But 2,600 years ago, around 700 BCE, when China’s ancestors were forging the world’s most advanced tech, ours were probably still stuck in the woods.”

“Don’t talk history, Mr. Rothschild. Past glory doesn’t guarantee present wins or rewrite future fate.”

Jacob forces a smile, thinking to himself: Sure, when the Chinese were crafting bronze, you Anglo-Saxons might’ve been forest-dwellers. But us?

Okay, fine—they were probably serving the Egyptians back then. Still better than you Germanic barbarian descendants, though!

Milo suddenly points his putter at the eastern trees, where three startled green-eye birds take flight. “Like these spooked birds—if this were a shotgun instead of a club, they wouldn’t see tomorrow. Mr. Rothschild, if you don’t land safely this time, I wonder if the ancient Rothschild family will have one either.”

Maybe it’s the heat, but sweat beads on Jacob’s neck, staining his Armani collar dark blue.

His swing cuts the air, but the ball veers, smacking the bunker railing.

“Deal.”

“But I’ve got one small request too.”

“Haha…” Milo laughs. “Go ahead, ask anything. As long as you can pay, Mr. Rothschild. What you’re offering now’s enough to keep me from siding with Morgan and Rockefeller. Up the price, and I’d even team up with you to take them down!”

Only a devil could afford what a devil like you wants, Jacob thinks. People call the Rothschilds financial demons, but this damn American feels way more like one.

Shamelessness? Milo’s right up there with them.

He’s eating up perks on the sidelines, pocketing Morgan and Rockefeller’s scraps, and now scooping up Rothschild goodies too. Reminds Jacob of America in the early days of both world wars.

“It’s really just a tiny ask,” Jacob says, done haggling with this guy.

“I want you to make sure tomorrow, Paladin Media’s TV stations and papers do us a little favor.”

“What favor?”

Milo pulls an Evian bottle from the ice bucket, water droplets sliding down onto his Bermuda shorts.

He peers at the rising bubbles in the sunlight. “Like I said, name the right price, and anything’s on the table.”

As the bottle touches his lips, Jacob speaks up. “Our banks in Europe are setting up cash mountains today to boost public confidence. I’d like…”

Chapter 353: The Voice of God

"Even though they offered me a pretty good price, no matter what, I’m still Rockefeller’s son-in-law."

Same golf course, different time, different players.

Yesterday, Milo was here swinging clubs with Jacob Rohill.

Today, the ones sending the little golf ball soaring into the sky were two different people—John Chris Morgan and David Rockefeller, the latter sitting in a wheelchair.

David Rockefeller hasn’t been feeling great lately. He showed up today, but he’s in a wheelchair.

So he’s not playing—just watching Milo and John Chris Morgan hit the ball around.

Milo was the one who just spoke, and here’s why he said it.

Last night, after finishing a round with Jacob Rohill, Milo made two phone calls—one to each of these guys.

He set up today’s game.

The moment they met, Milo sold Jacob Rohill out.

But not completely.

And honestly, this didn’t surprise John Chris Morgan or David Rockefeller one bit.

This is America—there’s no way Jacob Rohill’s movements here could slip past them unnoticed Dealers Choice.

“Too bad Lawrence isn’t around. If he were here, he’d definitely take another jab at you.”

Hand遮住额头，John Chris Morgan watched the golf ball arc high and land in a distant valley, then laughed heartily. “He’s never been a fan of yours, but good thing David still seems to like you as much as ever.”

From his wheelchair, David Rockefeller shot John Chris Morgan a look, thinking to himself, This guy’s trying to stir trouble between me and Milo again.

“Lawrence is just pissed because it’s not his granddaughter Milo married,” David said casually.

Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. The truth was, back when the Boston Consortium tried to team up with the Irish to make a comeback, it was Lawrence Rockefeller who led the charge to crush that partnership—leaving the Irish with nothing but wild dreams. That was one of Lawrence’s crowning achievements.

But now, the Boston Consortium is rising again.

And in a way that makes no damn sense.

Under Milo’s lead, no less.

With that kind of situation, it’s no wonder Lawrence Rockefeller has always had a bit of a grudge against Milo.

Still, looking at this little punk, David Rockefeller—feeling under the weather himself—wasn’t in the mood for games.

Old David cut straight to it: “2.3% of Aramco stock. I’ll transfer it to Arianna’s name by tonight.”

John Chris Morgan blinked, caught off guard by how generous David was being.

Then it hit him—the old man was playing a sly move.

He wasn’t handing it straight to Milo; he said it’d go to Arianna.

Sure, Arianna and Milo aren’t married yet, but they’re engaged.

Unless the Rockefellers and Blackbons go to war, it’s as good as done.

David’s move made some sense, in a roundabout way.

But John Chris Morgan didn’t have a handy granddaughter to use as a shield like that.

Still, he’d come prepared—after talks with his family and their brain trust.

This guy decided to go big.

“David’s throwing down like that? Well, I can’t look cheap now.”

The old man grinned. “I’ve decided to greenlight Blackburn Bank joining the JPMorgan lineup. I even came up with a slick name for it—how about Blackburn Morgan Chase Financial, or Morgan Chase Blackburn Bank for short? BML—using the first letters of our family names.”

Clearly, John Chris Morgan hadn’t run this by David Rockefeller beforehand.

Because when he finished, David’s white eyebrows shot up, a telltale sign the old man was rattled.

And Milo…

He dropped the goofy grin from earlier and stared at John Chris Morgan, who’d just dropped this bombshell.

The deep Morgan-Rockefeller tie-up—aka the birth of JPMorgan Chase—was coming.

A few years back, it was Wall Street’s best-kept secret.

But with banking laws getting scrapped and the whole thing landing in the Supreme Court’s lap—those “gods of the modern world”—it was already trickling out.

The media had kept it low-key, but the reports were there.

So even though there’s no public buzz about JPMorgan Chase yet, the full-fledged financial beast is just a formality away—waiting on the Supreme Court justices to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

In short, most of Wall Street already knows JPMorgan Chase is real.

And they know once it’s official, it’ll be the top dog in America’s financial food chain.

That’s exactly why, three years ago, fresh off his Rockefeller marriage, Milo started eyeing a stake in this bank.

It’s been a rocky road—Morgan family pushback, Rockefeller indifference, even some tense moments.

By now, Milo had pretty much accepted he wasn’t getting a board seat at JPMorgan Chase.

But just when he’d made peace with it, John Chris Morgan pulls this out of nowhere…

BML—or maybe BLM.

Blackburn Morgan Chase, Morgan Chase Blackburn.

The name and acronym alone—Milo couldn’t help but like the sound of it.

David Rockefeller’s face said it all—he was blindsided.

“Whoa, for real?” Milo’s grin crept back as he processed it. “If that’s legit, it’s way more tempting than 2.3% of Aramco stock. But…”

He trailed off. John Chris Morgan and David Rockefeller caught it—Milo’s face shifted hard. He froze, dazed, like he was hearing something.

John Chris Morgan frowned, handed his club to the caddy, and asked, “What’s up? Why’d you stop talking?”

He’d been all hyped up a second ago.

But David Rockefeller, still in his wheelchair, held up a hand to stop John from getting closer. His face twitched with a flicker of shock. “Don’t bother him. Not right now…”

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen this before. Just once…”

David’s voice dropped so low John had to lean in to catch it. “He’s listening to God’s voice. This is what he looks like when he hears it!”

There was a thick awe in the old man’s tone.

John Chris Morgan blinked.

Listening to God’s voice?

As head of the Morgan family, he’d heard the rumors—Milo could hear God.

That’s how he dominated the financial markets.

Never misjudged a company’s value in the capital game.

That’s how, in four or five years, he’d turned the Blackburns from a gasping has-been into a player that could sit at the table with the Morgans and Rockefellers.

How he’d dragged the Boston Consortium—down to its last breath after their beatdown—back into the big leagues.

John Chris Morgan had heard plenty of stories about this.

Some said the old Milo Blackburn was a total nobody.

But the day Paladin—his saintly big brother—died, everything changed. They say Paladin went up to God and begged for a blessing for Milo.

God took pity on the saintly Paladin and called His holy knight home.

But in exchange for taking His knight, God gave the Blackburns—pious for centuries—a warrior who’d never lose a fight!

Paladin, the knight.

Milo, the warrior.

The knight was gone, and the warrior was born!

It’s a real Christian-flavored tale, one that’s bounced around America’s elite circles and religious crowd like gospel.

Even the papers ran stories on it.

Otherwise, how do you explain it? A washed-up trust-fund kid, useless as hell—then his brother dies, and suddenly he’s a whole new man.

He grew too fast, and being the sole Blackburn heir didn’t hurt.

If they could, half the world would’ve sliced him open to see if he’s even human—or a bona fide miracle.

No question, John Chris Morgan had heard the rumors about Milo.

A ton of them.

Now, with David Rockefeller saying this, tying it to those old tales…

John watched Milo, who suddenly looked different. The Morgan boss wasn’t sure what to believe.

He didn’t interrupt, though—just quietly turned to David. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Yeah. Once. Me, him, and old Blackburn were chatting in my study. Then he went just like this.”

“And then?”

“When he snapped out of it, he said God told him an earthquake hit Hawaii. Not a bad one, but over a hundred people would die.”

“And then?”

“I was curious, so I had someone check it out. And…”

“And what?” John’s curiosity was hooked now.

“It was true. Hawaii did have an earthquake. And the timing? Right when we were in the study, when he got all weird. The death toll matched too—over a hundred. And get this: the full count didn’t come out till a month later.”

John Chris Morgan went quiet.

David’s story sounded crazy. He wasn’t sure if he should buy it.

If it’s real, though…

How the hell do they deal with Blackburn going forward?

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Milo snapped back to normal.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, shit!” he blurted out.

“What’d you hear?” David asked, urgent.

John Chris Morgan—still half-doubting—glanced between Milo and David.

If he didn’t know David so well, he’d swear they were pulling some prank to mess with him.

“No more golf. We’re done here, fellas.”

Milo tossed his club aside and started walking off.

David and John traded a look.

“Push me over!” David barked.

John hesitated, then grabbed the wheelchair and chased after Milo.

“What’d you hear?” David pressed again.

John chimed in, “Yeah, what’d you hear, Mr. Blackburn?”

Milo stopped dead. John, pushing David, nearly rammed into him.

They didn’t hit, but the sudden halt almost flung old David out of the chair.

“Fuck, I nearly got hurt!” the old man yelled. “I’m pissed now—tell me what you heard, or else.”

“Might as well tell you.”

Milo seemed to give in.

He stopped walking, shook his head helplessly. “It’s already happened. In a few minutes—maybe the next second—you’ll know what’s up.”

That just confused the two old men more.

But sure enough, like Milo said…

Barely after he finished, their personal assistants came sprinting toward them.

Even United Global’s crew instinctively moved to block them, worried they might mean Milo harm.

Milo waved them off—no need.

The old men’s assistants reached them, breathless.

“Top emergency, sir! You need to know this now.”

“Level-ten alert, Mr. Rockefeller. You should leave immediately.”

David and John locked eyes.

No hesitation—they didn’t say a word, just signaled their assistants to get them out.

Milo didn’t stop them, watching as they bolted—packing up and peeling out of the Kimpton National Golf Club in record time.

Milo didn’t stick around either. He left right alongside them.

A Kimpton staffer, doubling as a caddy to impress the trio, approached him.

Milo cut him off: “Get to New York. Now. Call your family—do it now!”

That was it. Milo hopped in his car and was gone.

Once inside, he started making calls.

First one to Paladin Investments: “Dump every Yahoo stock I’ve still got—fast as you can!”

Second call, third, fourth—all to his team.

By the tenth call, his car had crossed from New Jersey into New York City.

That’s when he rang United Global. “Get people out. Far from the Twin Towers. And not just the Empire State—got it? Not just the Empire State.”

That day was August 17, 1999.

Chapter 354: The 817 Incident

Back in 1963, an American meteorologist named Edward Lorenz submitted a paper to the New York Academy of Sciences titled Deterministic Non-Periodic Flow. In it, he pointed out the chaotic phenomena that emerge from numerical calculations in atmospheric dynamics.

At first, Lorenz called this unpredictability the “Seagull Effect” to describe the uncertainty chaos brings. Later, during a speech, he swapped it out for the more poetic “Butterfly Effect,” and that’s how it became famous.

According to this idea, if a butterfly in Africa flaps its wings one extra time, that tiny breeze could—after a long, winding journey—turn into a storm in South America! It’s tough to prove chaos like that, but a lot of scientists believe it’s real.

Milo’s always been a believer too. In his memory, the Southeast Asian financial crisis was supposed to hit in 1997. But in reality—whether because of his presence or some other unpredictable factor—in this timeline, it struck over a year early. It started brewing in late 1995 and swept across Asia by mid-1996.

In the timeline without Milo, if you were to list the most impactful events for the U.S. and the world in the first decade of the 21st century, 9/11 would top the chart. On September 11, 2001, a group of terrorists picked the ironic date that matches America’s emergency number. They hijacked four passenger planes and launched suicide attacks on multiple targets.

Except for United Airlines Flight 93, which crashed in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, after passengers fought back, the other three hit their marks: the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. That disaster changed American life forever.

For one thing, flying got a lot more complicated with all the new security checks. And cracking jokes about plane crashes or bombs? That’d get you hauled off real quick. At nicer airports, they’d just escort you out politely. At others, security might pin you to the ground without a second thought.

Of course, for a billionaire like Milo, who owns more than one private jet, that’s not an issue. Other changes followed too—bills boosting government power kept rolling out. The U.S. waded into quagmires abroad, indirectly fueling the rise of a power across the Pacific, and the ripple effects were massive.

Beyond that, once the raw pain faded and frustration with government policies grew, conspiracy theories popped up everywhere. Some blamed the government for reacting too slowly. Others thought they’d gotten intel beforehand but let it happen anyway. A few even claimed the government staged the whole thing.

From Milo’s perspective, based on what he knows from his past and present lives—mostly this one—the middle theory seems most likely: certain government agencies had intel but didn’t take it seriously, and that’s how the disaster unfolded. Plus, it’s not like the U.S. government hasn’t done this before.

Take the USS Maine or Pearl Harbor—cut through the fog, and it’s almost certain they had detailed warnings ahead of time. Yet they let it play out to justify war, using the enemy as a stepping stone. There’s even evidence suggesting the Maine incident was a U.S. setup. The profits were too juicy for the big players behind it: massive arms deals, keeping the dollar tied to oil, knocking down the rising euro, you name it.

The power across the Pacific might’ve been a decent target after the red empire fell. But they’re too good at playing turtle—ignoring provocations like they don’t even see them. Hard to crack that shell right away. So when an opportunity like this lands in your lap, why not take it?

That said, claiming 9/11 was a U.S. inside job is a stretch. If the government were planning something that big, it’d take years—too many moving parts to keep under wraps. One leak with solid proof, and the whole foundation of the country could crumble. The Maine could’ve been a setup because it happened in Cuba, not on U.S. soil. Doing that at home? If it ever got fully exposed, the public outrage would be off the charts.

Don’t tell me the big conglomerates don’t care—that’s nonsense. For America’s top 0.1%, the smart move is setting the rules and bending them to the max, not smashing the whole system. Unless it’s some extreme outlier situation, they’d never risk it. And 9/11? That’s not extreme enough.

Sure, years later, people dug up “evidence”—but it’s mostly pieced together from contradictory statements or shaky indirect clues. No hard proof, nothing undeniable. That’s the beauty of “innocent until proven guilty.” Milo’s not some absolutist, though. The odds of the government planning it might be less than 1%, but he wouldn’t rule out a few crazies being involved. Still, without more concrete evidence, he sticks with the second scenario.

What he didn’t expect, though, was this: it’s only 1999, and something like the 9/11 from his original timeline just happened.

Completely unpredictable. Even Milo, perched at the top of the elite, hadn’t caught a whiff of it. While he was playing golf with John Chris Morgan and David Rockefeller, a Delta Airlines Boeing 747 took off from Miami, bound for Washington. Mid-flight, it veered off course and slammed into the Empire State Building—one of New York’s most iconic landmarks.

Half an hour later, a United Airlines 737 crashed into one of the Twin Towers. Then another plane headed for D.C., but the U.S. Air Force scrambled jets and shot it down midair. What should’ve been 9/11 happened two years early on American soil.

And before it went down, not even Milo, John Chris Morgan, or David Rockefeller had the slightest hint of intel. Panic spread, followed by fury.

By the time Milo got back to a chaotic New York, the Empire State Building had collapsed in flames and rubble. The Twin Towers, which should’ve been reduced to ashes two years from now, got off lighter—maybe the impact angle spared them. One took a big hit to its upper corner but didn’t catch fire or fall. Still, there were casualties; those top floors were packed with tenants.

“God, what the hell happened? This is insane!” Liu Li, pale as a ghost, blurted out as they stood in Queens, far enough to be safe. From there, they could see the spot where the Empire State Building once stood, now just a plume of black smoke. One of the Twin Towers was missing half its top.

Milo, face grim, turned to the stunned security team from Global Union and barked orders. He told them to get his women and kids to a Long Island estate with an underground shelter. Normally, he’d send them to his private armed base upstate, but with everything in chaos, a militia with firepower but no air defense might actually be a target. Slim chance or not, he wasn’t risking it. A civilian estate felt safer for now.

Once the women were gone, Milo headed straight to JFK Airport. No surprise—after the disaster, the military had taken over. From here on, nothing but military planes could fly in or out of U.S. airspace. Anything else taking off would get blasted out of the sky by the defense grid. Military flights, though? No problem.

There, he ran into David Rockefeller, John Chris Morgan, and Laurence Rockefeller, all looking as pissed as he felt. “Hey, good to see you again,” Milo said, pulling himself together as he greeted the three old-timers.

“You knew something was coming, didn’t you?” Laurence Rockefeller muttered, eyeing him suspiciously.

Milo rolled his eyes. “If I’d had any heads-up, I’d be in Washington or Boston right now, not here.”

Laurence went quiet. He couldn’t argue with that. If he’d known New York was about to get hit—even if it was a long shot—he’d have bolted to safety too. For guys like them, “safe” meant either their fortified home turf, secure for a while even if civil war broke out, or Washington, the heart of the empire. Sure, some see the president as a puppet, but that’s an illusion. Even the weakest U.S. leader wields power that ranks high globally—guys like the Roosevelts or Kennedys? They had more clout than some old-school kings or emperors.

FDR, especially, ran the U.S. with an iron grip rivaling most ancient Chinese emperors. Died in the White House too, just like some of them. So, with no civil war on the horizon, Milo’s next stop was Washington. Not just for safety—everyone would be heading there to figure out who the hell did this.

The three old-timers—Laurence, John Chris, and David—showed up too, clearly on the same page. “Let’s get to Washington,” John Chris Morgan said with a sigh, his usual cheerful grin gone. “I’d bet my life it wasn’t one of us. Either someone’s lost it, or this threat’s from outside.”

David Rockefeller, still in his wheelchair, nodded. “Chris is right. Washington first. For safety, I say all four of us take the same plane.”

“Agreed,” John Chris shot back.

Laurence and Milo didn’t object. Made sense. Right now, no one knew who was behind it, and the next stretch would be a paranoid mess—everyone watching everyone else. If they split up, knowing the others were headed to D.C., what’s to stop some nutjob from staging a “crash” in all this chaos? A military plane going down wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows today. If a big shot dies, the payoff’s worth it for whoever’s pulling strings. For America’s elite, the ultimate move in any fight—business or otherwise—is wiping someone out physically.

So, one plane it was. If it went down, they’d all go together. Their heirs could wave the revenge flag, inherit the empires, and settle the score. “I’m in,” Milo said. Something told him the worst was over, and sticking with these old foxes might actually be the safest bet. Going solo now? His odd vibe during that golf game would only make them more suspicious, stirring up trouble he didn’t need.

Private planes were grounded, sure, and technically, they weren’t military. But rules don’t apply to conglomerates. Any one of these three—or Milo—could pull strings and move parts of the U.S. military if they wanted. Most big players have that kind of sway. If you can’t get your voice into the barrel of a gun, you don’t sit at the table—you’re the meal. That’s why the Texas crew, weak as hell in finance, still ranks. Their military-industrial game’s strong—they’ve got a say in the firepower. That’s how the world works: control the force, control your fate. At least enough to keep others on their toes.

Chapter 355: Aftermath and Chain Reactions

The Empire State Building collapsed—a structure that, more than any other in Manhattan, symbolized America itself.

Fearless reporters who rushed to the scene captured it all from a distance: the moment the building crumbled, the way it kicked up clouds of dust that swallowed the sky. The footage was crystal clear, broadcast live to the world.

It was terrifying, devastating. You could hear people crying near the reporters through the TV, and even the journalists themselves choked up as they spoke. This was an unprecedented blow to American confidence.

That night, across the U.S., parts of Europe, and Asia, countless people gathered outdoors—in squares, on streets—lighting candles and praying for the victims.

Milo joined them.

Alongside the current U.S. President, White House staff, and members of Congress, he took part in a similar ceremony at the National Mall in Washington, D.C.

Sure, just half an hour before, he’d been arguing with Rockefeller and a handful of others who’d rushed to D.C. It’d been a long, heated mess.

But right now? As the saying goes, “When the rabbit dies, the fox mourns.” Even those who didn’t step into the spotlight showed up for this White House memorial, blending into the crowd to honor the 5,635 identified American victims—and 235 foreigners.

Yeah, 235 foreigners died too.

The Empire State Building wasn’t just an office tower. Thanks to its history, it was a major tourist spot in New York. Every day, tons of visitors flocked to see it, heading up to the observation deck to take in Manhattan from above.

Milo felt sympathy for the dead, but not pity. Simple reason: not many of them were innocent.

The full story of what happened was starting to come together.

It wasn’t an enemy nation attack. At this point in time, no country-level power would dare challenge the U.S.

That’d be suicide.

But certain groups—ones without national authority? They had the guts.

The timing was off from what he’d expected, but in a matter of hours, Washington had pinned down the culprit.

It was that guy again.

And this conclusion had already gotten a preliminary nod from the big shots—the so-called “heavenly dragons.”

The intel from all sides pointed to him.

No need to dig into the why or how.

Extremists are nuts, sure, but why they turn into extremists? That’s a question worth chewing on.

As citizens of this country, they enjoyed its perks, reaped the dividends of war—naturally, they’d have to bear the costs that came with it.

Of course, some would shout back, “Sure, we got war dividends, but it’s not even a billionth of what fat cats like Milo rake in! If anyone’s paying a price, it should be those bloodsuckers first!”

Yeah! Damn right! Couldn’t agree more! It’s basically the truth! But… when’s the world ever been that fair?

The strong always take more and give less—just like elections are winner-take-all.

“Equivalent exchange,” “you get what you pay for”—that’s just the dreamy babble of idealists.

A society’s stability and vitality don’t hinge on democracy or freedom. It’s about whether the rules and morals stop the strong from snatching the weak’s last crumb—and whether the weak have a real shot at climbing up within those rules.

Fairness? It’s always relative. And Milo, as one of those “heavenly dragons,” had no qualms using this disaster to boost his image and line his pockets.

Besides the D.C. event that night, he rallied people on ITK to publicly denounce the terrorist act and back the government.

After that, a bunch of Hollywood events tied to the incident? His doing.

They were small-scale, though—either interviews condemning terrorism and blessing the injured, or specials where he prayed for victims and mourned with the rescue teams. Hosting anything big while the nation was still reeling would’ve been a death wish.

His team wasn’t prepped for this—he only found out right before it hit.

But he had one of the best news crews in the country. CNN’s reporters were pros, top-notch.

Plus, with Paladin Media’s resources, steering Hollywood wasn’t hard.

Other media giants didn’t have someone like Milo, with his massive sway in filmmaking.

So even if they weren’t thrilled about Paladin Media taking the lead, they couldn’t do much. Milo’s group was riding high.

A week or so later, when the public’s grief finally started to ease, bigger events—focused on comfort and encouragement—kicked off. Milo jumped in again.

This one was called God Bless America, a charity gala with no fixed location.

ABC led the charge, roping in the four major networks and cable channels for a marathon broadcast bouncing between L.A., New York, and London.

Big names from around the world joined in—those who couldn’t show up sent speeches anyway.

The venues were somber, lined with candles. Stars on camera wore heavy expressions.

They gave moving talks or recited hopeful poems. The vibe was serious, a bit dull—thankfully, there were singing segments.

That night belonged to the singers.

Madonna, Jackson, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez—they poured their hearts into songs of mourning and hope, dressing the part to console families hit hard by the tragedy.

It worked. The crowd—live and nationwide—ate it up with applause.

Then Britney, Christina, and a young Taylor Swift took the stage. When Christina opened with that first line, something different hit the air.

A touch of sadness, but mostly encouragement, confession, gratitude—smooth and captivating, backed by her killer vocals.

It went straight to the soul. Then Britney’s harmony kicked in, and the emotion soared—gratitude and inspiration lifting the song to another level.

Finally, Taylor’s unchanged, pure kid voice joined, and the whole thing ascended.

Their trio got more applause than everyone else combined.

It’d only been 20 days since the attack.

Most singers stuck to old tunes tweaked for the mood—swapped lyrics, maybe a new arrangement.

A few wrote fresh songs for 8/17, but the rush showed; they weren’t top-tier.

So when this song dropped, it stole the spotlight.

Two mega-idols in simple white outfits, light makeup, fit the melody perfectly.

Then Taylor, dressed as an angel, came in to elevate it—making the whole scene feel holy.

The low chatter in the crowd faded. As the song hit its peak, people held their breath, listening.

No doubt—this was Milo’s move. If he was going to milk this event, he’d milk it dry.

Beyond media, he didn’t let other arenas slip either.

Three days after the collapse, Congress unanimously voted for war.

The U.S. declared war on Afghanistan!

Milo knew it’d be a quagmire, knew it’d bleed the empire dry.

Didn’t matter.

Like 9/11 in that other timeline, 8/17—two years early in 1999—hit even harder.

The nation needed an outlet. The hyped-up military-industrial complex needed a excuse. All the “heavenly dragons” wanted a piece of the pie.

This war was a party the whole empire—top to bottom, including Milo’s crew—wanted in on.

Hell, Milo’s group craved it more than anyone.

The Boston Consortium’s bread and butter was arms. His buddies in California and Texas? Arms dealers too.

War was all that was left.

Only a 1991-style conflict could soothe the nation’s post-8/17 cravings.

So he kept busy, hustling for this early 8/17 mess.

It wasn’t until mid-September that Milo left D.C.

A month had passed since that day.

When he got back to New York, Manhattan’s streets were eerily quiet compared to before.

Post-8/17, the borough’s towering offices—businesses, city departments, banks, insurers, Fortune 500 HQs or branches—started bailing out.

Some big players stayed, but it wasn’t the same. The shadow of 8/17 still loomed over this 59.5-square-kilometer island.

“Everything’s gone to shit. Seriously, total shit.”

“The rubble’s still burning. Firefighters haven’t stopped.”

“Manhattan’s air—hell, all of New York’s—dropped a hundred notches.”

“Three kilometers from the Empire State site, you can still pick up toxic crap in the air.”

“The fall of the Empire State didn’t just take the building. It’s like Manhattan’s fate got tangled up in the mess too.”

Milo stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in his Rockefeller Center office at the International Building.

Staring at the grim, cloudy sky, he knew the world’s trajectory had shifted completely.

A lot of his foreknowledge? Useless now.

Good thing he didn’t just rely on memory. Good thing he could hear the gospel.

That rant just now came from his buddy, business partner, and sorta-father-in-law, Kimpton.

Next to Kimpton, sprawled on the office couch, was Milo’s best pal and current Blackburn Bank president, Hector Cabrera.

“I don’t see it that way, Don,” Hector said with a light chuckle. “Crisis, crisis—danger means opportunity. The danger’s passed; now’s the chance.”

“Chance?”

“Come on, Don. You’re in real estate. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—Manhattan and New York property prices have tanked over ten percent since that day.”

“Of course I know. But who’d want to live in Manhattan now? Even New York—people are itching to leave. Some just can’t afford to.”

“So, as the sharpest real estate guy around, shouldn’t you buy low? Scoop up those abandoned properties while prices are in the gutter? This is Manhattan. Unless it gets nuked flat, it’ll always be Manhattan.”

“You’re saying… prices will bounce back?”

“Obviously.”

Kimpton wasn’t sold on Hector’s take.

He glanced at Milo by the window. Hector caught it and grinned.

“No need to check with Milo—he agrees. He’s the one who told me.”

“Alright!”

Kimpton didn’t hesitate. “I’ll get people on it. When the price is right, I’ll stockpile some New York real estate.”

“Trust me, it’ll make you a fortune.”

Milo tuned out their chatter. He knew a global financial storm was brewing right here.

When it hit, fear would cloak the world’s capital.

The internet bubble—already early and bigger than he’d figured—was supposed to pop by year’s end.

A few months ahead of that other timeline.

But now, with 8/17, things got murky.

After the attack, U.S. and global markets tanked—naturally.

The overinflated NASDAQ took a brutal hit.

But just like the U.S. rushed to war, boots on the ground, the powers that be wouldn’t let the stock market crash too—not after this.

A wounded America couldn’t handle that kind of double whammy.

Chain reaction? It wouldn’t just be NASDAQ collapsing—regular stocks might get dragged down too.

So Milo and the other tycoons, who’d planned to bail, had to step in and prop up NASDAQ’s bubble.

Short-term, they pulled U.S. markets back from the brink.

Problem is, everyone knows the bubble’s gonna burst.

No one knows who’ll jump ship first. Everyone’s scared of being the last one out.

The old deal—where Milo rallied the tycoons to ride the bubble together—was dead.

Now it’s all cautious bubble-propping while eyeing the exit.

The storm’s coming.

And with 8/17’s ripple effects piled on, it’ll dwarf that other timeline’s NASDAQ crash.

Stack those together—could it top the ‘08 crisis?

Milo’s face stayed blank, hands in his pockets, gazing down at the tiny, frantic people on the street—rushing, rigid, insignificant.

“Boss, Treasury folks are here,” said Harrison’s little sister, Hayley’s cousin—Milo’s secretary. She wore a white big-collar shirt, unbuttoned enough to flash purple lace and a hint of cleavage.

Guests must’ve made her button up and throw on a fitted black blazer.

Still, the short skirt and black garter stockings—clips and lace peeking out—kept the imagination running.

She’d been dressing sexier lately, trying to catch someone’s eye.

“Let them in.”

(End of Chapter)