270 Park Avenue, New York City

The skyline shimmered through the wide windows of the top floor of 270 Park Avenue. The light of the late morning sun filtered in, glinting off polished marble and the smooth black finish of the executive desk that occupied the center of the vast office.

Behind it sat Jamie Whitlock, CEO of J.P. Morgan, flipping through quarterly reports with an expression of calm satisfaction.

It had been a good week—no, an exceptional week.

For once, the global financial press wasn't circling them like hawks. Instead, their tone had shifted from suspicion to admiration.

The company's stock had jumped forty percent in three days after rumors surfaced that J.P. Morgan had secretly backed Nova Technologies, the mysterious firm behind Lucid.

The rally had stabilized at ten percent, but that was enough to make the board ecstatic and the shareholders worshipful.

And Whitlock—the man who had quietly ensured every trace of Liam Scott's connection to Nova Technologies was buried under sixteen layers of legal and digital obfuscation—was enjoying the calm glow of victory.

They'd done what the rest of the financial world could only dream of: tied themselves to a mystery that printed money while leaving no fingerprints.

He smiled faintly, swirling the coffee in his cup.

"Even gods need bankers," he murmured to himself.

The next moment, the door opened and Marianne Langford, Head of Ultra-High-Net-Worth Relations, entered the office quietly.

Whitlock glanced up, and the moment he saw her expression, his brow creased.

Marianne was not the kind of woman who flinched easily, but her face was solemn today.

Whitlock set the cup down.

"Marianne," he greeted warmly but with curiosity. "You look like someone just downgraded the U.S. credit rating. What's wrong?"

She closed the door behind her. "You'll want to hear this, sir."

Whitlock noticed her tone. It was calm but tight. He leaned back, gesturing for her to continue.

"Daniel Conley sent an email a few minutes ago," she said, crossing the room. "He's requesting a priority meeting of confidential level of the highest clearance between you and his boss. "

Whitlock's curiosity deepened. "Daniel Conley… Bellemere Family Office?"

She nodded once. "Yes, sir."

That made him smile faintly. "So it's about the wunderkind."

"Liam Scott," Marianne confirmed quietly.

The name hung in the air like static.

Whitlock chuckled softly, folding his hands under his chin. "I wondered when that boy would surface again. What does he want this time?"

"That's just it," Marianne said. "Daniel didn't specify. He only said Mr. Scott personally requested a meeting with you in a week time."

For a moment, Whitlock didn't move. Then his eyebrows lifted slightly. "Personally?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that's the best thing I've heard all week," Whitlock said as a slow grin spread across his face.

He stood up, walked toward the window, and looked out over Manhattan.

"Liam Scott," he said thoughtfully. "That young man's name has a habit of turning up at the center of storms. Nova Technologies, Lucid, drone networks, autonomous logistics… every government and corporations on the planet's trying to trace him, and none of them can."

He turned back toward her, smiling. "And now he wants a meeting with me."

Marianne nodded slowly, though her expression stayed tense. "Yes, sir. That's what worries me."

Whitlock laughed under his breath. "You worry too much, Marianne. If he wanted to cause trouble, he wouldn't go through proper channels."

"With respect, sir," she said carefully, "that's exactly what worries me. He doesn't need to go through channels. For him to reach out—to you—personally—it must mean something significant. Something big. Maybe even something global."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And you think that's a bad thing?"

She hesitated. "I think it's unknown. And I don't like unknowns."

Her honesty earned a quiet chuckle. "You've worked in finance long enough to know, Marianne. Unknowns are where the profit lives."

She gave him a pointed look. "And where the collapses start."

"Touché," He smirked, walking back to his desk.

Marianne followed him with her eyes, exhaling softly.

"Sir, have you thought about what kind of venture this might be?" she pressed. "Conley's wording was vague—deliberately vague. And given that he rarely reaches out directly, it must be something more than just a financial adjustment."

"Of course I've thought about it," Whitlock said, settling back into his chair. "And I'm not worried."

"Why not?" She frowned.

"Because," he said simply, "we've already built the infrastructure to support him. Whatever this is, we're ready."

He steepled his fingers. "Do you remember what I told you the night we decided to keep his records classified?"

She nodded. "You said even gods need bankers."

"Exactly," he said with a smile. "And that hasn't changed."

He leaned back, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "You've seen the numbers, Marianne. Nova Technologies is already reshaping global markets. Lucid's deployment is only the surface layer. Their AI distribution channels, their automated resource hubs, their energy-neutral infrastructure — it's rewriting everything related to tech. Do you know what that means for us?"

"That every major sovereign fund will come knocking," she said dryly.

"That," he agreed, "and more. They'll need us to understand it. To translate it. To keep up. And the only people on Earth who can claim to already have a working relationship with the mind behind it all…"—he gestured between them—"is us."

He wasn't wrong, and that truth both comforted and terrified her.

"I just don't want us blindsided," she said quietly. "If he's asking for a meeting, maybe it's because he's planning something even bigger. And if that's the case, it could shift the balance of the financial world. Again."

Whitlock laughed softly, tapping a finger on his desk. "Then let it shift. We'll make sure we're standing on the right side of the fault line."

Marianne sighed. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," he said lightly. "We don't fight the current. We build the dam."

He stood again, walking toward the bar cart by the window. He poured himself a glass of still water and took a slow sip, his gaze unfocused.

"I'll tell you something, Marianne," he said quietly. "In all my years running this firm, I've met presidents, kings, oligarchs, and visionaries. But that young man…" He smiled faintly. "There's something different about him."

"And you're comfortable standing beside that?" Marianne asked with a softened voice.

"I'm not beside him," Whitlock said. "I'm where I've always been—the banker behind the curtain."

He turned, meeting her gaze. "He builds, we manage."

Marianne didn't argue. She knew he meant it.

Finally, she nodded. "Very well, sir. I'll reach out to Conley and confirm the meeting window. We'll handle it under our most discreet protocols."

"Good," Whitlock said, his tone returning to its usual smoothness. "Schedule it for next week. I'll make room, no matter what."

She gave a small bow of acknowledgment. "I'll notify Daniel as soon as possible."

As she turned to leave, Whitlock spoke again.

"Marianne."

She paused. "Sir?"

"Don't lose sleep over this," he said gently. "Worry less about what he wants and more about what we can gain."

She gave a small smile, though her eyes were still wary. "Understood."

When the door closed behind her, silence settled over the office again.

Whitlock stood by the window, the glass reflecting both him and the city that sprawled beneath. He took another sip of water and let out a slow breath.

Liam Scott. The name alone carried weight. A quiet but undeniable one.

He knew that there was something intangible about the boy—something even Whitlock couldn't categorize.

He admired that. Feared it a little, too.

But fear was good. Fear meant relevance.

He smiled, setting the glass down.

"I wonder," he murmured to the empty room, "what you're building this time, Mr. Scott, and how much it'll cost to be part of it."

The thought made him chuckle. He returned to his desk, pulled up his calendar, and cleared his schedule for the coming week.

Whatever the young man wanted, he'd make time.

After all, even gods needed bankers—and the smartest bankers never missed a chance to invest in something profitable.

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