Blaar blaar blaar...
alarm blasted in the background, loud and sharp, shaking the silence of the room. A hand reached clumsily from the bed, fumbling in the air as though trying to stop the noise. His fingers brushed the edge, missing by just a little. After a few failed attempts, he gave up, his hand falling back uselessly.
"Babe, turn off the alarm," the man muttered under his breath.
The alarm went on blaring.
Minutes passed, yet he still didn't bother standing up. Instead, his hand drifted toward the other side of the bed, as if searching for something. But it touched nothing but empty air.
That empty space made him lift his head at once. He looked over. Sure enough, the other side of the bed was vacant.
A sharp headache struck him the moment he moved, the bitter price of the alcohol from last night. He groaned, clutching his temples. He and his wife had celebrated hard yesterday. Her absence didn't bother him much though.
Pulling off the bedsheet that covered his upper body, he stood. His frame was strong and balanced, not too bulky yet far from thin. His muscles seemed to sit perfectly in place, giving him a natural sharpness.
He wasn't overly handsome, but his neat buzz-cut hair, trimmed with discipline, and skin so smooth and clean it could make a woman jealous, gave him a refined, striking look.
"Ugh…"
He glanced at the alarm clock.
6:06 a.m.
Reaching over, he finally pressed the button and silenced the noise. The room went still again. He didn't return to bed. Instead, he opened the side drawer, pulled out a pill, and swallowed it to dull the headache.
"Heh. We pretty much overdid it last night," Aron muttered with a faint smile.
Aron would be turning twenty-four next month, but at his age, he had already climbed further than most could ever dream. He and his wife, Rihanna, had been married for over two years. She was an A-class model, admired across the globe.
And Aron himself… he was a legend.
He ruled the stock trading world. His name had appeared on the news time and again. Each trade he made moved mountains, shifting trillions of dollars and shaking the markets so violently that entire corporations wept. In boardrooms across the Blue Star, people spoke his name with awe and envy. They called him the Trade King.
His company, terrified of losing him, had handed him a promotion to chair executive, an attempt to chain him to them. Under his watch, the corporation had soared above its competition, cementing itself as the number one in the world.
Jumping down from the king-sized bed, Aron went about his morning routine. By the time he was done, the clock showed 6:30. Now out of shower with a towel.
Beep beep beep
He typed in a short code. A door slid open, revealing a wardrobe that looked more like a showroom.
One side was filled with rows of designer suits, their cut and shine enough to scream wealth at a single glance. Another side displayed shelves of casual wear, each piece meticulously placed.
On the floor, however, countless shopping bags from Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Versace, Armani, and more lay scattered as though discarded. New clothes still sat inside, unopened, tossed aside like trash.
With a towel still around his waist, Aron picked a simple set of clean clothes and slipped them on.
Walking to the shoe racks, he was greeted by neat rows of designer footwear. Just like the clothes, dozens of branded boxes were piled at the bottom.
He selected a pair of sleek white sneakers that matched effortlessly.
He moved to the final section, a wall lined with luxury watches, each one rotating slowly in glass cases. Every single watch could easily buy a house, if not more.
Aron picked one casually, strapped it on, and stepped away without a second thought.
When he was dressed, he sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes, and meditated for ten quiet minutes. The habit calmed his mind, steadying him before the day began.
Finally, he rose and headed out.
"Good morning, sir. Congratulations."
"Good morning, sir. Congratulations."
"Good morni..."
Every worker he passed bowed and greeted him the same way. Aron only nodded slightly in acknowledgment. His promotion had already spread through the news; nothing about his life ever stayed private for long.
He entered his garage.
The sight stretched wide like a football stadium.
Rows upon rows of luxury cars were aligned in flawless order. Rolls-Royces filled one section, thirty-nine different models standing side by side. Another row gleamed with Mercedes-Benz. Ferraris and Bugattis had their own dedicated rows as well, each boasting no less than twenty models.
"Good morning, sir," a man in his thirties greeted him with a respectful bow.
"Morning, Mr. White," Aron said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Mr. White was the man in charge of the garage, responsible for maintaining the countless vehicles. Officially, he was also Aron's assigned driver, though Aron's passion for cars meant he rarely let anyone else touch the wheel.
"Have you seen my wife?" Aron asked suddenly. He had tried calling her earlier, but her number had been busy. That was unusual.
"Ah… Madam left in a hurry early this morning," Mr. White answered after some thought. "She didn't mention where she was going. I offered to drive her, but she declined."
"Hm." Aron frowned faintly. "What was so urgent that she couldn't tell me?"
Then, as if the thought clicked, a smile tugged at his lips. That woman… He was sure she was busy preparing a surprise celebration for his promotion at work.
"Looks like I spoiled the surprise already," he thought with a soft laugh.
Aron scanned the endless rows of cars. His gaze settled on a sleek Pagani, its license plate bearing nothing but a single digit: 3.
He had bought that plate at an auction, paying six hundred and eighty-nine million USD. It was the second most expensive plate in the world, just behind one owned by an Arab prince.
Mr. White hurried off and soon returned, handing him the key with both hands. Aron took it with a nod.
Sliding into the Pagani, he turned the engine. The roar echoed across the vast garage, deep and powerful.
With one sharp rev, Aron sped out of the mansion and down the estate driveway, leaving it all behind.