At last, the long-awaited Friday arrived. The sun shone generously upon the ground, still damp from the previous night’s rain. Clara, leaning out from one of the drawing-room windows, caught sight of a rainbow — an omen, perhaps, of destiny itself. Meanwhile, James was making the final arrangements for the gifts he would bring to the meeting of his exclusive and secret circle of millionaires.

Both were impeccably dressed. James, in a perfectly tailored evening suit, radiated authority and elegance. Clara wore a dreamlike gown he had given her the night before — a piece worthy of a young noblewoman, embroidered with silk flowers and tiny pearls along the neckline.

“Are you ready to leave?” James asked, adjusting his black leather gloves.

“Yes… though I must confess I feel a little nervous — and embarrassed,” Clara replied, lowering her gaze. “I still live with you. What will people say if they ask whether I am your wife or… your slave?”

James allowed himself a faint smile, keeping his eyes fixed on the horses.
“Do not trouble yourself with trifles. These people belong to another social sphere — far above petty gossip. Tomas Vargas already knows you live with me. I shall simply tell them that, as it appears, you will be living with me from now on.”

With a gentle tug of the reins, the carriage set off. James let out a spirited cry:
“Let’s go, Pegasus!”

But in the shadows, among trees and lingering mist, a pair of dark eyes followed them. Henry Blackwell watched in silence, plotting a scheme as sinister as it was quiet.

The journey lasted two long hours. Exhausted from the strain of the previous days, Clara fell asleep during the ride. Seeing her resting, James did not wake her. When they arrived, the crunch of hooves on gravel slowly stirred her from her dreams.

“Have we arrived?” she murmured sleepily.

“Yes,” James answered softly. “We are here.”

Before them rose a majestic mansion, its marble columns gleaming, its stained-glass windows catching the light. Two dark-skinned servants, dressed in immaculate white uniforms, approached.

“Mr. Tomas Vargas is expecting you,” one of them said in a calm, courteous tone.

“Thank you kindly,” James replied, stepping down from the carriage.

The main hall was a symphony of refinement: a large rectangular table, draped in a white cloth edged with gold, offered delicacies of haute cuisine and, at its center, a carefully placed bottle of French champagne.

The guests were seated in a semicircle. Upon entering, James removed his hat in a gesture of respect. Tomas Vargas noticed at once and, raising an eyebrow, clapped once to summon one of his servants.

“How is it possible you did not take Mr. Carter’s hat before he entered?” he reprimanded in a low but firm voice.

Sensing the discomfort of the young servant — clearly new to his duties — James stepped forward with grace.
“He did ask for my hat, but I was the one distracted enough to walk in with it. My apologies for the discourtesy.”

Without a word, Clara removed her small floral hat with delicate fingers and handed it to the servant.

It was then James remembered the chest he had brought. Opening it before Tomas Vargas, he revealed an exquisite hourglass with gold trim and a set of pearl-adorned rings. The gift was received with genuine astonishment.

“A magnificent offering,” Vargas said, as the servant took the hats away.
“Come in, James Carter,” Tomas continued, lighting a cigarette with deliberate slowness. “Allow me to introduce you to some of our partners.”

Clara, still nervous, remained a step behind James.

“This is Mr. Whitmore,” Vargas announced, “lawyer, owner of vast lands, and founder of New York Money Bank.”

Mr. Whitmore, a tall man with pale eyes and an unshakable composure, inclined his head only slightly, avoiding direct eye contact — as etiquette dictated among society families.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said in a cool voice. “I have heard much about you, Mr. Carter. Please, take a seat — and, if you wish, invite the young lady to join us.”

James accepted the courtesy. Clara, timidly, fetched two chairs and seated herself at his side with delicate, polished movements. Vargas continued the introductions as more guests arrived and servants offered trays of nuts, fruits, and pecans.

During the conversation, James spoke of some precious stones from India brought in by two new clients.

“I have not purchased them yet,” he explained. “There are still details to settle, and an expert must examine them.”

Suddenly, a bronze bell rang through the air. A butler announced:
“Dinner is served.”

The main dining table was even more opulent than the reception. Each place was set with white porcelain, silver cutlery, and linen napkins folded into perfect triangles. A whole roasted turkey presided over the center, flanked by salads, mashed potatoes, and imported wines.

All took their seats with elegance, and a servant began carving the meat with precision. Between bites, Tomas Vargas resumed the conversation:
“Why didn’t you buy those stones, my friend James?”

“I was about to speak to you about them before the bell rang,” James replied. “I preferred to present them to you first. If they are genuine, they could mean a significant business opportunity for us all.”

Vargas nodded, raising his fork like a man giving a blessing.
“A wise choice. Tomorrow, I will accompany you to meet them. You know I do not seek wealth alone. I seek values — and above all, noble blood… like yours.”

Clara, hearing those words, drifted back to her childhood. She remembered the rigid dinners at her parents’ house and understood, at last, that they had long wished to be rid of her. James, despite their age difference, offered her a stability she had never known. Perhaps here I shall dine well for the rest of my life, she thought, with resigned sweetness.

The night went on with speeches, wine, and laughter. Eventually, the guests were led to the mansion’s spacious rooms.

“Clara, the maid will take you to your room,” Vargas announced.

She nodded with a slight bow, still silent.

The next morning, James and his companions shared an early breakfast, heavy with thoughtful silences and glances that foretold an important day ahead. After bidding their hosts farewell, Tomas Vargas offered to accompany James to his property, intending to discuss future partnerships with the gemstone suppliers.

The horseback journey to James’s home lasted about two hours. Clara traveled in the rear of the carriage while Tomas rode alongside James. They spoke seriously of market conditions, new distribution routes, and possibilities for expanding trade in the region.

But upon arrival, they were met with a desolate sight.

James’s workshop — that space which for years had cradled dreams forged in fire and metal — lay utterly destroyed. As if a furious horde had unleashed their wrath with sledgehammers and tools of ruin, every corner was devastated. Glass display cases shattered, furniture overturned, the floor strewn with debris.

Stepping down from the carriage, James advanced with a hardened face, holding back the mixture of rage and pain building in his chest. The jewels were gone. So too were his tools — many of them unique, crafted by his own hands with the patience of a master artisan.

Some distance away, hidden among the weeds on a hillside, a man watched the scene with delight. Henry Blackwell, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, smiled with a crooked sneer. His eyes gleamed with a malice almost childlike, and his thoughts escaped in a whispered murmur:
“Hahahahaha… Let’s see if you’re still smiling after this, Mr. Sunshine.”