The plates were still warm when the servants came to clear them, as though they could still feel the heat of the story that simmered between Jake and his father. The remnants of their meal—a lavish spread of herb-crusted lamb, roasted vegetables glazed in honey, and buttery saffron rice—lingered in the air like an afterthought, overshadowed by the weight of the tale about to unfold. The dining hall of Mr. Kirby's sprawling estate was bathed in the golden glow of a chandelier, its crystals casting prismatic flecks of light across the mahogany table. Outside, the cicadas hummed a lazy evening chorus, but inside, the silence was charged with anticipation.
Moments later, the dessert was rolled in on a silver trolley—a display fit for the mansion of a man who had spent decades turning soil into gold. Bowls of fresh mango pudding, their surfaces shimmering like liquid amber, sat beside glass cups brimming with a deep purple grape mousse so rich it seemed to swallow the light. A tray of golden-brown almond tarts, their sugared tops crackling faintly as they cooled, filled the space with the comforting aroma of caramelized butter and vanilla. At the center stood a tall, frost-kissed jug of orange-carrot juice, its surface glistening with condensation like morning dew. As the final touch, porcelain cups of spiced tea were set down with a whisper-soft clink, their steam curling into the air like phantom serpents.
Jake leaned back in his high-backed chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He tapped a silver spoon against the edge of his mousse, the sound sharp and deliberate, before fixing his gaze on Mr. Kirby. The older man's face was a map of sun-weathered lines and shrewd eyes, the kind that missed nothing.
"So," Jake began, swirling the spoon, "about the show..."
Mr. Kirby folded his arms, the fabric of his tailored shirt straining slightly over his broad shoulders. One salt-and-pepper eyebrow arched, and he gave a slow, measured nod—the kind that said, I'm listening, but you'd better make it good.
Jake exhaled, the memory rushing back like a tide.
"It started with an ID card," Jake said. "The one Mr. Rowland gave me. Flimsy piece of plastic, really. But that card was my ticket into a world I'd only ever dreamed of."
Security had scanned it at a wrought-iron gate so tall it seemed to scrape the sky. The guard, a mountain of a man with a neck thicker than Jake's thigh, had examined it with a skepticism that bordered on disdain before jerking his chin toward the path ahead.
"The building was... monumental," Jake continued. "Like some modern-day cathedral to wealth. Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection—and in it, I looked small. The ceilings soared so high my neck ached from staring. And the echoes—every footstep, every whisper bounced off those walls like ghosts reminding you how insignificant you were."
He'd been led down a corridor lined with portraits of past winners, their faces frozen in smug triumph. The hall where the participants gathered was cavernous, its emptiness amplifying the tension. Only a handful of others had arrived early. No coaches yet. Just the uneasy silence of strangers sizing each other up.
"We waited. For like an hour. Felt longer."
"Sounds dramatic already," Mr. Kirby muttered, sipping his tea. The cup looked comically small in his calloused hands.
"Right?" Jake smirked. "But then the coaches walked in. Seven of them. All in these tailored suits that probably cost more than my first car. They moved like they owned the air in the room. The head coach—the one who did all the talking—had this voice like gravel and honey. He laid out the rules: no handouts, no shortcuts. Just raw, relentless work."
Jake paused, recalling the sting of those first moments.
"Turns out, almost everyone there had been scouted from Ivy League competitions or plucked from corporate boardrooms. And then there was me—the guy who got in because of a 'special connection.' The looks they gave me? Like I'd bribed my way in with monopoly money." He shrugged. "But I'd spent years writing about underdogs. Hell, I was one. So I just thought... Let them stare."
Mr. Kirby chuckled, his mustache twitching. "That's my boy."
"We drawed numbered cards to assign their temporary homes. Jake got Seventeen—a mansion so vast its silence was oppressive."
"You'd think 'luxury' meant stocked fridges and velvet couches," Jake said, rolling his eyes. "Nope. Place was empty. No food, no furniture, not even a damn rug. Just these towering, hollow rooms that made my footsteps sound like gunshots."
Mr. Kirby snorted. "So what'd you do? Throw a party with imaginary friends?"
Jake grinned. "Close. I ordered takeout, cracked open my laptop, and fell down the rabbit hole of the word 'asset.'"
His father's face twisted in disbelief. "You're telling me you went to a show about making millions and your first move was Googling definitions?"
"Yep." Jake's voice turned serious. "Every dictionary said an asset was something you own. But that didn't fit. Not for this. So I called my coach, Mr. Zhang."
"Wait—" Mr. Kirby held up a hand. "You used your rest days to cold-call your coach?"
"I wasn't there to nap, Dad."
Zhang had been surprised but impressed. Over the phone, his voice was crisp, like a teacher savoring a rare eager student. "An asset isn't just property," he'd said. "It's something you create that outlives you. A business. A patent. A story."
The revelation had hit Jake like lightning.
"I asked if writing counted. He laughed and said, 'If Shakespeare were alive, he'd be a trillionaire.' That's when I knew. I didn't need to reinvent the wheel—I just had to sharpen my pen."
For the next three months, Jake's life became a metronome of discipline.
"Imagine your son Jake doing this," he said, leaning forward. "4 a.m. wake-ups. Cold showers. Two hours of writing before sunrise. By 8, a spiritual coach drilled me on mindfulness. At 10, emotional resilience training—think therapy meets Navy SEAL drills. Afternoons were seminars, networking, dissecting the habits of billionaires. I read everything: Buffett, Musk, Oprah, ancient philosophers. Even the Bhagavad Gita."
Mr. Kirby whistled. "You turned into a damn monk. I can't believe it"
"Had to." Jake's voice dropped. "I couldn't carry Mom's death, the divorce, the drinking... not if I wanted to fly."
A silence settled, thick as the mansion's old oak doors.
Then, three days into the fourth month, Jake called Zhang again.
"You're alive," Zhang had deadpanned.
"I'm ready," Jake replied.
Their brainstorming birthed 'The Super Granny'—a fantasy series about a retired widow who discovers magical powers and defends her neighborhood from supernatural threats.
Mr. Kirby nearly choked on his tart. "That's your billion-dollar idea? A geriatric superhero?"
"Exactly," Jake said, grinning. "It was fresh. Heartfelt. Funny. I wrote the first book in three weeks. We shot a pilot, pitched it to sponsors, and—" He snapped his fingers. "Boom. Viral. Merchandise, spin-offs, a theme park deal. By the finale, I wasn't just winning—I was rewriting the game."
Mr. Kirby exhaled, his pride palpable. "So you're... what now?"
Jake met his father's gaze. "A billionaire. Technically."
He leaned back in the plush leather armchair, swirling his drink absently. The ice clinked against the crystal glass, a soft percussion to his thoughts. Across from him, Mr. Kirby—gray-haired, sharp-eyed, a man who had seen empires rise and fall—watched him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
The older man's eyes glistened. "Your mother... she'd be—"
"I know she would've been very proud of me," Jake said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "She was like that."
Mr. Kirby chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Well, a billionaire. I'll admit, I never thought it was possible to make so much money from a book."
Jake's grin widened. "Oh, you thought I sold books? Nah, you've got it twisted. I sold a business." He took a sip, letting the moment stretch just enough to pique the old man's interest. "Let me break it down for you."
He set the glass down with deliberate care. "I wrote a novel—The Super Granny. Good story. Mystery, romance—though the love angle might not hit for the younger crowd since the lead's an older woman. But it worked. Then, instead of begging some suit to publish it, I started my own company. Just like that—now I'm a publisher."
Mr. Kirby's brows lifted. "Bold move."
"Necessary," Jake corrected. "Had a buddy hook me up with distribution—next thing I know, it's a bestseller. Then I thought, why stop there? Started an entertainment arm. Three weeks in, we're shooting a film adaptation. Six months later, TV series deal. By then, the brand's everywhere—merch, royalties, franchise deals. Printed it on mugs, T-shirts, hell, even bedsheets. All under one umbrella: Greenhouse."
He leaned forward now, eyes gleaming. "That's what I sold. Not a book. A machine. A billion-dollar machine."
For a moment, the study was silent save for the distant tick of an antique clock. Then Mr. Kirby let out a low whistle. "Damn, son. That's not just smart—that's ruthless." He shook his head, half-admiring, half-disbelieving. "You should've cut me in on that."
Jake smirked. "Private show. No outsiders."
"I'm surprised," Mr. Kirby admitted, pouring himself another drink. "And impressed. Most kids your age are still figuring out how to pay rent, and here you are playing chess with empires."
Jake shrugged, but there was no hiding the satisfaction in his posture. "Had a good teacher."
The older man's expression softened, just for a second. Then he raised his glass. "To the Super Granny, then. And to the man who turned her into a legend."
The crystal chimed as their glasses met. Outside, the first stars began to pierce the twilight—tiny pinpricks of light in a vast, waiting sky.
And somewhere, Jake liked to think, she was smiling. Smiling that he had become her strong son once again.
A car horn blared outside, cutting him off. Mr. Kirby stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. "That'd be my wife. Probably bought out the whole market."
As they walked to the door, Jake hesitated. "Dad... I did this for her, too. For all of us."
Mr. Kirby pulled him into a rough embrace. "She'd be proud, son. So damn proud."
And as they stepped into the twilight, the weight of the past finally felt lighter than air.