The Investment
1306 Words
The private jet touched down at Van Nuys Airport in Los Angeles.
Vivian leaned against the window, watching the fading light outside.
Her right leg was in a below-knee cast and was secured to the side.
"Miss Sterling, we've arrived."
Her personal bodyguard, Sarah, spoke softly and moved to assist her.
Vivian waved her off.
Bracing herself on the armrest, she stood, her right leg held awkwardly aloft as she hopped on her left to the waiting wheelchair.
Last month's catastrophic defeat at the World Championships resulted in a fractured tibia and a torn Achilles.
"Mr. Vanderbilt in Beverly Hills will oversee your rehabilitation."
Her stepfather's words on the phone had been gentle, yet left no room for argument.
"Vivian, your career path requires a mentor to guide you."
Mentor?
Vivian smirked coldly at this word.
As the cabin door opened, the head of the security team ascended the stairs.
He looked down at Vivian in her wheelchair, his eyes assessing her.
"Miss Sterling, we're here on Mr. Vanderbilt's behalf to take you home."
With a wave of his hand, he instructed, "I'll carry Miss Sterling. You two, take the wheelchair down."
Sarah immediately stepped forward: "Miss Sterling prefers not to be touched by strangers. I will assist her."
She bent her knees slightly, presenting her back steadily to Vivian.
The bodyguard did not object further.
"This way, please."
He gestured toward a convoy of black Rolls-Royce Cullinans.
——
The motorcade pulled away from the airport.
"Miss Sterling, some water?"
Sarah took a bottle of water from the cooler.
Vivian leaned back into the soft leather seats, took a small sip, and kept her eyes fixed on the scene outside.
The convoy traveled along the coastal road.
Gradually, the urban glitter gave way to the dark, rugged outlines of the Santa Monica Mountains.
The April night in L.A. was cool and dry.
The motorcade began its ascent up the winding hillside roads, heading into Bel-Air.
Luxurious, discreet estates dotted the hillsides, their lights glowing.
Vivian knew that each one represented the pinnacle of West Coast wealth and influence.
"Miss Sterling, we are approaching Mr. Vanderbilt’s residence."
The cars slowed, turning onto an ultra-private, tree-lined driveway.
Motion-sensor lights flickered on sequentially, illuminating the severe lines of a stunning modernist minimalist structure ahead.
Vivian looked up—
A row of staff in deep grey uniforms stood attentively along the circular driveway.
The head butler, a man in his fifties with impeccably groomed hair, waited with a perfectly professional smile.
Sarah exited first and moved to help Vivian, but the butler was quicker.
The door opened, and the cool night air of the hills, scented with oak and night-blooming jasmine, swept in.
The butler gave a slight bow: "Miss Sterling, welcome to 'Vertigo Peak'."
Vivian didn't move.
"Where is Charles Vanderbilt?"
She asked, her tone laced with displeasure.
"Mr. Vanderbilt is handling urgent matters in his study. He specifically asked me to show you around upon arrival."
The butler himself took control of the wheelchair, guiding it smoothly along the accessible pathway.
Vivian noted the exquisite white orchids lining the path, swaying gently in the evening breeze.
"Mr. Vanderbilt has arranged your suite in the east wing, where the floor-to-ceiling windows there overlook the entire panorama of Santa Monica beach."
The butler continued as they moved.
"The private medical team is also on standby, having arrived this afternoon, ready to take a complete examination of your injuries at your convenience..."
Suddenly, the intercom buzzed.
"Miss Sterling, Mr. Vanderbilt will see you in his study now."
They took the elevator to the third floor.
The door opened to a long hallway floored with ivory-white wool carpet.
At the end stood a dark walnut door, a glimmer of light coming from beneath it onto the pale carpet.
Just as the butler raised his hand to knock, a sharp, cold reprimand went through the heavy door.
"This is the final proposal you present to me?"
The wheelchair halted softly.
Through the opening, Vivian saw a tall figure standing before a floor-to-ceiling window, while the vast Pacific darkness stretched out endlessly behind him.
One hand was in his pocket, the other held a phone to his ear.
"The correlation assumptions in your model are fundamentally flawed, which renders your projected IRR meaningless. You're trying to sell me an eight-figure investment based on this model?"
The man’s voice was low, the tone dripping with icy, condescending pressure.
"Sir, I—"
"Back to the drawing board. I need a viable proposal that accurately prices the risk by 10 AM tomorrow."
As the call ended, the butler knocked on the door.
"Come in."
The butler opened the door to find Charles already off the phone, whiskey tumbler in hand.
He stood with his back to the door, his broad frame outlined by a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal a Patek Philippe on his wrist.
"Miss Sterling is here, sir."
Charles didn't turn. He finished the whiskey in one swallow before setting the glass down on the solid mahogany desk.
"Apologies for the wait. Hope the flight was comfortable."
Vivian's fingers tightened slightly on the arms of her wheelchair.
The chill of the reprimand she'd overheard still lingered.
The air held a blend of whiskey and the faint, clean scent of cedar that seemed to cling to him.
She looked up.
Deep-set eyes, a prominent nose beneath gold-rimmed glasses—a picture of sharp, polished elegance.
Age had certainly bestowed a composed authority.
He looks intense, Vivian thought, her gaze dropping to the hint of muscle beneath his shirt.
"The in-flight food was disgusting," she drawled. "The rest was... fine."
Her voice, however, was a note lower than usual.
Charles's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"So," he said, "the chef that I specifically flew in from Jean-Georges only rates a 'disgusting'?"
Vivian pursed her lips.
"The Angus was way overcooked, the lobster tasted off, and the chocolate lava cake was not even molten! Actually, the food all tasted plain. No flavor at all."
"That meal was tailored to professional athletic standards," Charles cut in, with unusual patience.
"Low sodium, low fat, high protein. Weight management is critical, in or out of season."
"But I'm injured!" She gestured at her cast. "And it's the off-season!"
Seeing his smile fade, her voice trailed off.
She looked away: "Fine. Whatever."
Silence surrounded them for a moment.
Charles abruptly pulled a medical file from a drawer.
"You still want to return to ice—in this condition?"
Charles held her medical file, his voice cool and edged with a cutting, refined accent.
Vivian lifted her chin: "What's it to you?"
Removing his gold-rimmed glasses with deliberate calm, Charles proposed.
"Let's make a bet. One year. All you have to do is learn to obey... and I'll guarantee you an Olympic medal."
"Why should I believe you?" Vivian asked, turning serious.
The name Charles Vanderbilt was indeed legendary in figure skating, having achieved the Career Super Grand Slam before the age of 26.
But a great athlete isn't necessarily a great coach.
"Because you have no other option left. I can offer you the best medical team globally, the finest training resources, and most importantly, victory."
Charles held her gaze: "The rule here is simple: absolute obedience."
He slid several documents across the desk.
Vivian scanned a few pages and smirked.
"How much did my stepfather offer? Ten million? Fifty?"
"To you, this might sound like a business deal," Charles said, leaning forward.
"But to me, you are simply an investment."
He picked up a pen, tapping the signature line.
A memory surfaced: her father's voice saying, Capitalists are driven by profit. They never make bad bets.
After weighing her options, Vivian signed.
She took a glass of champagne he offered.
"Hope for a pleasant cooperation, Mr. Vanderbilt."
- Writer
